


The Force Shall Free Me

by webgeekist



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Star Wars AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 14:58:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2029359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webgeekist/pseuds/webgeekist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"So...what exactly is this thing?"

The lilting tone of the young padawan's voice floated across the cavernous, war-torn deck of the ancient ship, and despite being in four very remote locations from one another, all could hear her question, and all could respond.

But it was her master that did so first.

"This ship is the Leviathan. It was Darth Malak's flagship during the Jedi Civil War."

"The Jedi Civil War? Four thousand years ago?" The youngest member of the party gave a low, long whistle. "That's a looong time for something to float around in space and not get hit. But wait, which one was Darth Malak again?"

"The idiot," he replied.

"Not helping there, Grumps."

From the master, a long-suffering sigh as he inspected a power relay near their docked ship. "Malak was the second in command during the Mandalorian Wars, and when he and the Jedi Revan returned form unknown space as Sith years later to spark the Jedi Civil War, he was the apprentice and Revan was the master."

The padawan kicked over a scorched sheet of duranium. "He was the one that tried to kill Revan. The one that failed and basically wiped his memory and turned him into a good guy?"

Artie Nielsen, Jedi Master, was short for a human male, with scraggly, salt-and-pepper curls and a scruffy beard. Despite his pudgy appearance, he was a gifted strategist and exceptionally good with codes and puzzles. As the senior JEdi, he was their leader and the supervisor of their artifact storage facility, a place that had long ago been subbed simply "the Warehouse."

"Yeah," he replied, scratching his head as he poked at a set of sparking wires. "Like I said, the idiot."

His padawan was the mostly human, partly Zabrak Claudia Donovan, a technical genius and an uncontrollable smartmouth. Unlike full-blooded members of her less-dominant race, she had no horns, but her skin tone was a shade too red to be human, and her face bore some of the patterned coloration typical of her people. It made her look as if she had tattoos along her hairline.

Red hair flared out as her head turned, finally, to face her elder. "So...if this thing was there for all the major battles, and on the losing side of the war, then how is it still in one piece?"

She had a point, especially given the most recent turmoil.

The galaxy had been thrust into a conflict, and the Jedi were the unwitting leaders of the Galactic Republic's war efforts, in command of a near-endless army of clone soldiers, commanded by the senate and its chancellor. Conflict stretched through the twenty-five thousand year history of the Republic, and of the history of their Jedi Order. The ship had been part of a conflict known as the Jedi Civil War, named because the leaders of the opposing forces had once been Jedi. But after that came the Jedi Purge and the Dark Wars. Those conflicts and the many that followed left no corner of the galaxy untouched, and the growing detritus of space travel left moving celestial bodies spiraling out in all directions constantly. The odds of anything the size of such a size remaining not only untouched, but powered on enough to generate life support for so long was nearly impossible.

And yet...

"This place looks pretty beat up," came another voice, a younger male than the master, but not without the gravel and weight that comes from experience. "Who says it hasn't been hit by a bunch of space rocks?" Pete Lattimer adjusted his dark brown robe as he looked up to examine some debris. He was also human, originally from Corellia, and possessed of a quick humor and expressive face. He was also not the adult in the group - as soon as his eyes fixed on a point in the darkness above he started turning around several times to make himself dizzy.

"Well if it has been, the hull is remarkably strong." The last member of the group spoke, a tall, slender woman with a calm and measured voice. She looked around her not with the gleeful curiosity of Claudia or the carefree abandon of Pete, but as someone who was cataloging each and every detail they came across. In essence, she was. Where Pete met the universe with quick humor and an expressive face, Myka was the epitome of Jedi discipline. There was not a wrinkle in her attire, nor a single curly lock of hair out of place and her green eyes – a remnant of distant Echani ancestry – were serene and watchful.

Though both students of the same Jedi Code, Pete and Myka were like night and day. Pete's connection to the force led him down his life's path with what he termed "vibes," giving him a little more warning than everyone else whenever a deadly situation arose. He was also a little loose with his interpretation of rules, though he erred on the side of compassion and there was no doubt he was a disciple of the Force.

Myka on the other hand, believed in rules as strongly as she believed in the greatness of the Republic and in the importance of her Order. She was by far the most gifted saber duelist of the team, and exercised her own Force awareness by detecting details of a situation — no, by being magnetically drawn to them—that would have otherwise passed the notice of the rest of the team.

Though they often drove each other – and their Master – to distraction, Myka and Pete were a formidable team, using the Force is strikingly different but remarkably complimentary ways.

Like now, while Pete took in the entire space and Myka investigated a pile of debris nearest the main corridor hatch. "I'd bet the shields are augmented by an artifact," she mused out loud.

Artie made a noise of agreement.

Invariably, in the midst of a galxy-spanning war, every new enemy went in search of some advantage...some ancient power or weapon that would ensure their victory. Once, a long time ago, that power had been the Force, but that advantage was lost as more people discovered their connection to it. And ultimately, the Force was wielded by sentient beings. Beings who could not always be controlled. Which meant many a government or army had sought out force-augmented artifacts to employ as devastating weapons.

The Jedi Order had long ago realized the danger of such objects, and began quietly collecting them and storing them in a secret facility to keep them away from those that would use them against the Republic. For thousands of years, they had assigned the most gifted and loyal and brilliant of guardians to become agents in the cause of safeguarding those artifacts, the Warehouse they were stored in, and the secret of their very existence.

Artie and his companions were those agents.

"We'll see," came his gruff reply. "Let's move."

They collectively began to shift closer to the bow of the ship, watching the shadows warily, reaching out with their every sense for lurking danger. They fanned outward in a choreographerd pattern, searching for answers to questions they weren't sure they had right.

Such was the way of an artifact hunt. Agents so often didn't know what they were really looking for until they stumbled upon it.

It was the way the debris had been shuffled at her feet, the particular scorch mark on the door to her left that was typical of a modern lightsaber rather than the technology used four millenia before, that made Myka realize they were most likely not alone. Quietly, she drew her saber and held it at the ready, her thumb just below the actuator. She felt more than saw the others do the same as they crossed the expansive chamber to her side, creeping down the main corridor toward the bridge on silent feet.

"Mykes..." Pete whispered, but she didn't need him to tell her that he was feeling one of his vibes - whatever lay before them was significant enough that even she could feel it.

The main corridor was long and dark - lights flickered ominously as they beat a quiet, protracted path toward the bridge. Interspersed in the bulkheads and the tributary corridors was more debris, and giant, ancient cracks that should have broken the ship apart. Myka noticed them all, plotted them on a map in her mind, and reached a very dangerous conclusion.

The ship shouldn't be in one piece. The sum total of what they'd seen should have resulted in a catastrophic structural failure eons ago.

She was about to turn to the rest of them and express exactly that concern, but at that moment, muffled voices reached their ears, oddly distorted in the vast spaces of the ancient ship. Two distinct ones floated through the hollow corridor — the first was the voice of a man, though indistinguishable beyond that in its shroud of echoes. As they kept walking, however, the group could sense Artie tense: Now, close enough to make out words, he recognized something.

"Come now. Surely you recall how the power core of this vessel operates. Simply explain it to me, and we shall both be off this ship with it."

"And what then, Jedi? What will you do with me, a relic as old as this ship, once you have your precious power core?"

The other voice held a sharp accent that was entirely unfamiliar. It was that of a woman, arrogance evident in her tone, but Myka detected a hint of something...different. A slight tremble, a hint of physical exhaustion.

"My dear, I have no qualm with you. I would simply wish to use this amazing contraption against a common enemy of ours. I may have been Jedi once, but I am no longer in the thrall of their mindless dogma."

As those words echoed across the cracked walls, the group of JEdi finally reached their destination. The bridge of the ancient Leviathan, much like the more modern designs of the Republic Fleet, had a massive, open floor. At the very front, against the vast backdrop of open space, two figures crowded over the command console. It wasn't a stretch to imagine, based on the snippets of conversation they had heard, that they intended to begin the shutdown sequence for the ship's power core.

Given the structural integrity of the ship, Myka knew that could not happen.

"Ah, Arthur. How lovely of you to join us. It really has been too long."

The man's silvery accent slid over the group as he and his accomplice turned to greet their guests.

"You mean not long enough, James," came Artie's gruff reply.

The pieces fell together for the rest of the group and Myka clenched her teeth on the hiss that rose in her throat.

They'd heard stories of James MacPherson before. He had been cunning as a Jedi, with the ability to calculate a battle strategy to the last move. He excelled in psychologically outplaying an adversary, and did great things even before his appointment as a Master.

He disappeared, however, shortly after being granted the title. It wasn't until they'd each been brought into the secrets of the Warehouse that they learned he had turned on Artie, and that their Master had been silently hunting MacPherson ever since.

The handsome man with dark hair just greying at his temples stood before them all in the flesh now, a tall and commanding presence clad in a darker version of the classic Jedi attire. Myka was dismayed slightly to discover he was also clad in some very advanced armor. It would make cutting him down difficult if it came to a fight.

"I see you've made new friends," the former Jedi said, gesturing with his hand at Myka, Pete and the others standing near Artie.

"As have you," Artie replied, jutting his chin toward the woman at his side. "Introductions, James. You never were one to be rude."

"Ah, yes. This is Helena Wells, former Emissary of the Sith Empire. My dear, these would be the…complication…I was speaking of earlier."

The woman at his side nodded wearily toward the group of Jedi. Her dark, straight hair was pulled up into a long ponytail, and her irises were as black as space. Her robes were ancient-looking, as if pulled from a time far before any of them; perhaps even before the ship they stood upon had soared through space. She had a slight build, but two lightsabers hung from her belt — a dual-wielder, dangerous and exceptionally rare.

A puzzle then, one that Myka felt herself - even if was only distantly - desiring to solve.

"Emissary of the Sith Empire? James, you know as well as I do that the Sith have been extinct for a thousand years," Artie's tone was dismissive, but Myka, familiar with her Master, heard the single discordant note of apprehension.

"Our friend has been asleep for quite some time, I'm afraid."

Myka felt the urge to bristle and controlled it. Her training ran deeper than that.

"It doesn't matter James. This is where you and I come to terms." He gestured with his saber-laden hand toward the pair at the front of the bridge. "I'm taking you both to Coruscant."

The strange balance, the sense of waiting that had shrouded the room was shattered. MacPherson's gaze sharpened and a certainty came over his face. Myka, Pete and Claudia reacted in kind. Sabers were adjusted in tensed hands and feet were slowly slid into position for long-practiced saber forms as a long and heavy tension stretched between them all.

Then, suddenly, it snapped.

"Well," MacPherson said, "now that pleasantries are over..."

Myka never saw MacPherson gesture, but suddenly his companion was thrown forward toward th group of Jedi Knights. The sound of sabers activating tore at the air as the Knights moved as one, prepared to strike her down.

All but Myka. For Myka - whose strength had always been observation - saw immediately the shock on the other woman's face and noted that though she had two perfectly good sabers at her side, she reached for neither.

As her companions stepped forward, so too did she, but Myka's instincts were not to attack. Instead she raised her saber in defense of the Sith, positioning her body in front of the woman where she crumbled to the deck of the bridge. For the briefest of moments, her companion's faces bore a mixture of shock and anger, but it was short-lived.

The ancient woman came to rest at Myka's heel, sprawled on her face and near-motionless. At once, the exhaustion in that sharp voice made sense to Myka — she was weakened, and had probably just been brought out of whatever stasis she'd been in.

Understanding was secondary to reaction, however, for there was a greater danger. When Myka turned, expecting MacPherson to attack them, he was nowhere to be found.

"Dammit! A distraction!" Artie, who had been prepared to attack the Sith along with all the rest, clenched his fists.

"He's gone after the power core." The words were weak, only barely reaching the ears of the group.

Myka bent low to help the Sith to a sitting position, shocked at how quickly the woman's condition seemed to be deteriorating. The stranger now leaned her slight frame heavily against the Jedi, her breathing harsh as if she had just finished running a distance.

"What does that power core do? How has it managed to keep this ship on line for so long?" Myka asked urgently.

Myka could almost feel the strength as it was sapped from the woman she now supported in her arms. Dark eyes, tinged slightly by an angry red, flicked to Myka's face and a hint of a grim smile appeared on bloodless lips before the Sith answered weakly. "Nothing. It is not the power core that has kept this ship together these past four millenia." Her words were so soft, they reached only Myka's ears. The others had already fanned out to search the rest of the bridge for signs of MacPherson, though it appeared to be fruitless.

Myka's eyes widened as realization struck her. "MacPherson doesn't know that does he?"

Now the Sith managed a short, mirthless laugh. "Why would I trust a fallen Jedi?"

Myka would have asked more, but at that moment Artie came stalking back and the deck beneath their feet creaked ominously. She whipped her head around to face the master. "Artie, this ship is being held together by its shields. When MacPherson pulls the core, it's going to break apart."

"Then we need to get out of here," he said, gesturing to the others.

Artie, Claudia, and Pete began moving back toward the dock without question, but Myka cast a glance down at the woman kept upright only by her own body and hesitated to move. This stranger was a Sith. Myka had no reason to trust her, no reason to save her at all, but the Jedi knew she couldn't simply leave the other woman to die on the crumbling ship.

"Can you walk?" she asked. The Sith looked at her, a strange mixture of shock and confusion crossing her face for a moment. Then as if reaching a decision, she gritted her jaw and her fingers closed around Myka's arm.

"I will try."

Pete led the way back through the tunnel, with Myka helping their companion. It was shocking how little she weighed. Despite her weakness the Sith had projected an air of power that belied her apparent fragile physicality. The woman stumbled frequently, slowing their progress and amplifying Artie's ire.

"Are you trying to buy enough time to kill us? Whatever it was about that power core that was keeping this ship together is escaping with James."

"I assure you that is not true," the Sith managed breathlessly.

"How can you be so sure?" Artie shot back.

The answer, however, was lost as they reached the open deck where they had docked their ship with the ancient destroyer. The Sith took a last step, and collapsed.

Myka caught her and looked to where the others were already dashing toward their vessel. In a split second, she made her decision and scooped the unconscious woman into her arms.

"Pete!" Myka called as she neared the ramp.

The man skid to a quick halt and turned to help his partner as the other two boarded the ship. There was a quick and practiced glance exchanged as they decided who would keep watch over their mysterious charge and then Pete left to prep the ship for take-off.

"Thank you," came a raspy whisper as Myka gently eased the stranger onto the bed in the medical bay.

"It was you, wasn't it?" Myka asked, somehow needing conformation at what the stranger had hinted.

The woman merely nodded.

The lighting in their little corner of the ship wasn't bright, but Myka could see the subtle details on her face that proved the veracity of MacPherson's claim about her heritage. She appeared human for the most part, but there was an angry glow to her skin tone that wasn't present in any known living species. Her hair was so black it seemed to absorb light, and there was an edge to her cheekbones that Myka had only ever seen in old holos from ancient wars, on the faces of the pure Sith adversaries the republic had fought — and defeated — many times over.

Dark eyes flickered open and locked on Myka's.

"I was locked away in a stasis field on that ship for four thousand years. The only way to survive was to ensure that the ship was not destroyed."

The deck rocked and rumbled, and shouting floated through their ship from the bridge. Myka gripped the side of the bio-bed to keep her balance. There was nothing she could do anyway. Pete was a superb pilot.

The stranger's expression grew soft. "And now that I am free of her, the Leviathan has finally found her eternal peace." With a long exhale, the other woman's eyes closed, the lst of her strength exhausted. For a moment Myka was fearful that she, too, had slipped away, but the rise and fall of her chest remained steady, and she could still sense the Force within the silent form before her.

The Jedi quietly unclipped the lightsabers from the Sith's side and, satisfied that she was quite asleep, slipped away toward the bridge.

Their vessel was a Corellian Engineering Corporation YG-4210 light freighter, but had been heavily modified over the years by the Claudias and Arties of warehouse history. There was enough room for crew quarters, an ample cargo area equipped with neutralizing fields of various kinds to handle the unruly artifacts they found on their hunts. The medical bay was to port of a small common area that attached to the bridge, where Myka found the other three Jedi.

She was just in time to see their stern clear the crumbling ruins of the once great Leviathan. The sight made Myka unaccountably sad.

"You left her?" Pete exclaimed, looking up from the controls now that they were safe. "You left her alone?"

In response, Myka presented the Sith's twin sabers to Artie. He looked at her, down to the sabers, then back at her again before taking them.

"She's unconscious. I can feel it."

"What did she have to say, then?"

Myka turned to her Master. "She said she was imprisoned on the ship, in stasis, and that she was the one that was keeping it together. That she had to keep the ship together to stay alive. There never was a power core. At least not one that would do what MacPherson thinks it will do."

Artie scratched his scruffy chin. "Well, James escaped with something. I can only guess he believes it to be an artifact."

"Were we under attack? Earlier?"

"No…the ship disintegrated. James jumped to hyperspace before we could stop him."

"So…" Claudia detached her nose from the terminal she had been reading to join the conversation. "What do we do with our blast from the past back there?"

"We can't trust her. She's a Sith. No Sith has ever done anything good."

Myka was quick to respond, something in her compelling her to defend the woman who could not defend herself. "You know as well as I do that isn't true."

"Aww, Man. I wish Steve were here." Pete sighed. "He could tell us if she was lying."

"Well, we'll see him soon enough. We're headed back to Ossus. We're headed back to the Warehouse."

It wasn't long later that Myka found herself back in the medical bay at the Sith's side as she tried to work out the puzzle the woman presented. The Leviathan had been Darth Malak's flagship after he betrayed Revan and attempted to kill him, before the great Jedi Master Bastila Shan, then only a padawan herself, had saved his life. There had been no record of a Sith emissary. When a redeemed Revan finally regained his memories, he didn't speak of her at all. Surely that might have been a detail worth revealing.

And then again, perhaps not. History had proven there was so much more about his time as a Sith that Revan didn't reveal.

How had this woman come to be imprisoned on Malak's flagship? Had it happened before or after his betrayal? What part had she played, as an emissary to an Empire that eventually invaded Republic space again and very nearly conquered it, in the destruction that Malak had wrought upon the galaxy?

The woman twitched in her sleep, drawing Myka's attention. She was beautiful, Myka realized. Fiercely, almost achingly beautiful. And hard on the heels of that realization came the equally shocking discovery that Myka was…concerned…for this woman. It mattered to the Jedi who she was, and how she had come to be imprisoned on that ship.

Somehow, though she couldn't define it, Myka felt a connection to the Sith.

And how that could be possible was perhaps the biggest puzzle of them all.


	2. Chapter 2

The history of Ossus – and the Warehouse – was complicated.

Nestled far from the galactic center and the core worlds of the Galactic Republic, amidst the sparse and somewhat desolate planets of the galactic outer rim, the world had once been a paradise as lush and beautiful as any other. Once the Jedi Order established their great library there, it also became a popular destination for scholars and researchers, and as the communities grew, so did its popularity with the citizens of the Republic.

The Jedi had long been aware of the existence of artifacts. Some could feel their presence as they made waves in the fabric of the Force, as they affected the objects and people around them according to their alignment. These objects could be felt as if they were alive, as if they had intentions and desires, and the Jedi were quick to discover just how dangerous those objects could be.

Thus, the Warehouse was born.

For several thousand years, it housed the misfit collection of unexplained relics in the shadow of the Jedi's great center of learning, but hidden from the view of common man. Only a select few knew of its existence, and fewer still knew how to access it. Its wonders – and terrors – were far too alluring.

It was the allure of power, of strength, of ultimate weapons of destruction that led a fallen Jedi named Exar Kun to Ossus nearly five thousand years previous. History assumes he was searching for ancient Sith knowledge, but he was searching for far more than that – he was searching for rumors. Legends. Powers beyond imagination.

He assumed the Jedi kept those artifacts in the great Library, and sacked the Jedi compound before eventually poisoning the planet. He assumed wrong…but the damage had been done, and beautiful Ossus would become a wasteland.

The Warehouse would remain, however, better protected by the planet's inhospitable climate than by any safety measure they could conceive.

And there had been survivors, an entire tribe of people that had dedicated themselves to the ruins of the Jedi enclave, who were Force-sensitive and mostly peaceful. In time, the planet began to adapt and recover, and even thrive once again in its own unique way.

Myka smiled as the familiar warmth of the orange sunlight of Ossus hit her face for the first time in months. The air was filled with the exotic fragrances unique to the world, and carried on it the distant laughter of a nearby tribe of natives. Where deep forests, expansive lakes, and a temperate climate had once been the hallmarks that made the planet so amazing, the lingering effects of the disaster had blanketed the world with a thicker atmosphere. The climate was arid and dry in many places, and overrun by dense tropical plantlife in others. There, on the outskirts of the ruins of great Jedi library, they were surrounded by a nearly-impenetrable jungle, which provided the most natural of covers.

Myka had never been a fan of warm climates, preferring ice and snow to oppressive heat, but Ossus had its own secret charm, something hidden and revealed only to a select few. Despite her initial misgivings about her assignment to this secret place, she had grown to love it, and even call it home.

"Take her to the house," Artie instructed, steering the captive Sith toward the ramp, and toward Myka. "Keep a close eye on her. Pete, you go with them." The elder man turned a harsh gaze on their ancient guest. "If the Sith so much as looks at you the wrong way, take no chances."

"As if I were currently in a position to cause you, my gracious hosts," she emphasized, her cultured voice dripping with sarcasm, "any sort of trouble."

"You're lucky to be alive at the moment. Don't push it."

"Artie, she's barely able to stand on her own. At least let her recover a little before you accuse her of planning something evil."

Myka's uncharacteristic outburst earned her a low tone and a stony glare. "She is a Sith, Myka. Her kind may be long dead, but they were ruthless and cunning conquerors, seduced and consumed by the Dark Side of the Force. You would do well to exercise the sort of caution a first-year padawan is taught to possess around such a creature."

A quick glance to her partner, to his widened, shocked eyes, was enough to still her tongue. "Yes, Master Artie," she replied.

The trio walked in silence to their actual home – a modest two-story dwelling obscured by jungle vines – on the other side of a small clearing from their dock. She yearned for sleep on a bed more comfortable than the one on the ship, for a few days of peace so that she could recharge. But at her side stood the menacing figure of the person that would ensure her days back home would be anything but peaceful.

A short, dark-skinned woman stood waiting for them at the door, dressed in a colorful outfit typical of her native tribe. Leena was a Ysanna, a descendant of the survivors from so long ago, and their keeper, for lack of a better word.

"Welcome back, guys," she said, smiling. Her amber eyes crinkled in glee for a moment at the sight of her friends, but lost that edge a little as curiosity overtook her. "Who is our extra guest?" she asked, gesturing with her chin toward their charge.

"An enemy," Pete said quickly. "We need to get her to the lockup."

Leena's smile faltered a bit at Pete's tone, but the young woman nodded.

The dwelling was fairly spartan, but held Leena's personal touch thorughout. Small tribal trinkets and freshly-cut local blooms were placed on tables and shelves, and the warm light flooded the main rooms of the house, invading the entry even without the front door open. To the right, under a set of carved stone and wood stairs that led to the upper level, was a secure-looking door.

It led to a long corridor, lit partially by squat windows near the ceiling and partially by artificial light. The windows caught more light the further down the hallway they proceeded, until they reached the end of it. There stood a bright, off-white room with a hidden restroom, and dozens of empty shelves. on the right, and a single bed tucked against the wall, covered by a faded but warm-looking quilt on the left.

A cell.

Myka stood in the center and fumbled with the cuffs around the strange woman's wrists, trying not to look into the Sith's eyes. There was an odd, familiar quality to them that felt…what was the word she was looking for?

Safe?

But that in itself was cause for alarm, and so she opted not to look into her eyes, or at her pale face and dark red lips that seemed permanently bent into an arrogant smirk.

"Really, Darling, are you always so shy? Do look up now and again. Your lack of confidence is a weakness."

The cuffs clattered to the ground as her eyes flew upward.

Pete raced to her side, putting himself between Myka and their prisoner, his hand on the saber at his side.

"There now," the pale woman clucked. "Isn't that better?"

The other knight slowly backed them both out of the cell, and activated the switch on the wall once they were clear.

"The cell is force-suppressive, so don't get any funny ideas," he said.

"And why would I have any ideas?" she retorted sharply. "I've been rather indisposed for quite some time. At the moment, I wouldn't have any idea what to do with myself."

"Well then…consider doing nothing for the foreseeable future."

Pete turned away and started back down the corridor. Myka lingered briefly, looking back at the prisoner as she stared Pete's retreating form down, then shifted her eyes away as the dark gaze strayed toward her own.

A pang of guilt hit her: hadn't the woman on the other side of the force field already spent enough time doing nothing?

"There's a datapad in the table drawer. You can read news from the holonet, watch some vids, read a book or two. Something to keep your mind occupied, at least."

She expected – she wanted – no acknowledgment, but the soft "thank you" she received was welcomed.

She turned away, but Leena lingered for a few moments, her bright eyes raking up and down their prisoner's body as if she was a book to be read. After a few moments, the other woman turned, as well, and the pair walked away.

"Well…what do we do now?"

Pete, Myka, Leena, Claudia, and Artie had gathered in the entry of their small home, beyond the sealed door leading down the long hallway.

"We let her rot."

Myka frowned at her superior's attitude, and despite the acute memory of the acidic look she'd received earlier for defensing the sith, she did so again.

"That's far from the humane thing to do, Artie. We can't just leave her there."

"Oh, I have no intention of leaving her there," he started, "I intend to put her back in stasis at the earliest opportunity. That woman is a sith, and that makes her evil."

"There's good in her, Artie. I can feel it."

Leena's remark was surprising. The Ysanni woman, ever polite, rarely volunteered information without being asked for it. It was a trait Myka appreciated in their rather ragtag household of strong personalities.

At that moment, however, she appreciated having another voice of reason in the group.

"You were studying her aura, weren't you?"

Leena's hazel eyes lifted from her task to meet Myka's gaze. "Of course," she supplied.

"What did you see?"

There was a long pause as the shorter woman's eyes darted about, as if she were re-reading the information she had gathered. "She's conflicted."

"Conflicted?" Artie's scoffed. "How would that even be possible?"

"The same way it's possible that you are conflicted, Artie. She hides her own desires, wages her own battle against an internal pain, just as you battle against your own feelings every day."

Artie's deep brown eyes widened as if his secrets had just been laid bare for the entire table to see, and Myka wondered what he would think if he knew they were all already aware of how powerfully the man tried to deny attachment. They were a community, a family by necessity. They shared a common mission, and its secretive nature meant there wer simply few people in the galaxy that they could trust completely. Each of the jedi stuggled with the inevitable attachments that companionship formed.

But Artie fought the hardest, perhaps because he had sacrificed so much. Myka smiled affectionately as his bushy eyebrows crinkled together in dissatisfaction.

"Stop reading me," he muttered.

"My point," Leena continued, "is that though the Dark Side has a hold over her, it is not complete."

"So…what? We can't set her free, and, really, putting her in stasis isn't exactly fair." Pete said.

"How it is not fair? That's how we found her." But at Pete's arched eyebrow, the older man grumbled in assent. "Fine, fine…we'll give her to the Council and let them try her for her crimes."

"Crimes? Master Artie, c'mon," Claudia's voice took on a pleading, slightly whiny tone that drove the older man visibly crazy. "What did she really do?"

"For one, she helped wage a war on her emperor's behalf against the Republic. For two, the sacking of Telos. She was probably there for that."

"You don't know that," Claudia countered.

"Yeah, hard to prove when nobody knew of her existence before a few days ago. Besides, we're well past the statute of limitations for that."

All eyes turned toward Pete with varying grades of shock.

"What? I learn things."

"He has a point, Artie," Myka supplied. "It's going to be difficult to convict her of anything, and in the meantime we have a real, walking historical record available for us to learn from."

"Even a twisted mind can be an artifact," he retorted, "but…fine. She's our best lead on James, for now. If nothing else, maybe we can figure out why he was after the power core…or whatever he thought the power core could do." Artie waved dismissively at Myka. "You have the closest thing to a connection with her. Go see what you can do."

She still longed for the peace of her bed, of a good night's rest, but resigned herself to another hour or two seated in the uncomfortable metal chair on the other side of the forcefield. The woman was seated on her bed, meditating, and where before the other woman only barely registered through the Force, she could feel the power and strength coming back to the woman even through the force barricade.

Myka wrapped her slender fingers around the top bar of the metal chair and dragged it away from the wall, its legs scraping across the textured floor and filling the hallway with a harsh echo.

"Our surgeon will be here soon to look you over."

The other woman didn't open her eyes. "I would be perfectly fine if you would allow me to commune with the Force for a few moments."

"Maybe later," Myka supplied.

The sith opened her eyes at last, fixing her black gaze upon the jedi so sharply that she felt as if that gaze penetrated into her very soul. Her mental discomfort translated into a physical fidget as she shifted in her seat.

"I'm here to ask you some questions."

"I gathered." Myka noticed for the first time the faint ring of red around the sith's irises, and how the angry color made her gaze look sinister. Where had that been earlier, she wondered?

"We need to know why James MacPherson was after…you, I guess."

Whatever weakness, whatever softness had been present in the woman before was gone now, replaced only with the cool arrogance that had begun to slip through earlier.

"Honestly, Jedi, I have no idea."

Myka was surprised to discover she missed that absent softness. She sighed.

"Okay…let's start with something simple. How long was he on the ship?"

"I can only really account for his whereabouts after he released me from stasis."

"Fine." Myka leaned back into her seat. "Start there."

It was an easy, dry recounting. MacPherson had given her a short amount of time to recover before ushering her to the bridge and the engineering console that controlled the power core, during which she had to continue to maintain the ship's integrity. He'd revealed little of his intentions and even less of his reasons, but by the time they arrived, Helena had reached her limit.

"I'm quite gifted," Helena said, "but after four thousand years of consciousness, the mind requires a rest."

It had been mentioned before, that long term of wakefulness, but now Myka was afforded a moment to reflect on what that truly meant. "That much time, trapped in your own head…it must have been agony."

"Offers a lady time to think," came the smooth reply.

"Still…it wasn't right, what Malak did to you. I'm sorry."

"I don't need your pity, Jedi."

The words struck, but Myka had expected them. "That's not pity. It's compassion. It's justice. What happened to you was cruel."

"What happened to me was my own fault. I was so focused on Malak's attack upon Revan that I failed to sense the oncoming attack upon me, and I've had quite some time to reflect upon the humiliation of letting that sniveling sycophant get the better of me. If he weren't already long dead, I would most assuredly hunt him down and slowly destroy him."

Leena's previous words echoed in Myka's mind, ans she decided to take a risk. "You cared for Revan."

The sith's face fell into what might have been a disgusted scoff.

"You weren't focused on the attack, you were concerned for your friend."

An even mask slipped back onto her face, and Myka's lips quirked into a smile.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"It's all right to care for people."

"It's folly to care for people. That is not the Sith way."

"You don't believe that."

"I do, Jedi. And you would do well to remember that."

"Helena…"

"You will address me as Darth Morlock."

She saw the other woman's emotionless mask click into place with a sharpness equal to the one in her voice at the command. Padawans are taught of the ancient Sith, of their callousness and cruelty. A jedi learns early the kind of evil the dark side creates within its followers. And despite what Leena said, this woman wielded the dark side with a mastery she doubted many had accomplished in their much longer and well-documented lifetimes.

But Myka was familiar with masks, and where the woman before her could no doubt use her anger as an offensive weapon, at the moment it was simply a shield to hide behind.

She stood and moved the chair against the wall once more before turning to face the sith again with kind eyes.

"I'll be back later with some food," she supplied. "I'll bring some more datapads, too, and a holochess board. You strike me as the type of person to enjoy a good game of strategy."

The prisoner said nothing, merely glared at her. The jedi moved to leave, but paused mid-stride as one final thought occurred to her.

"And my name is Myka."

She walked away in silence, but she took that silence as a good sign.


	3. Chapter 3

There was no light underground.

There were lamps, of course - bioluminescent hybrid algae or fungus or something that had lived in the Warehouse for thousands of years, harnessed and used as a source of incandescence that was undetectable by sensors from orbit. It cast an eerie glow that took years to fully adjust to.

But Artie never really considered it light, leaving that term for something he could actually read by. Nevertheless, he sat in his cluttered cave of an office, removed from his desk and workstation and waiting on a worn but comfortable chair, watching a holoconference in silence with one eye on the video feed of his Sith "guest" and the other on a datapad filled with readouts.

He had been allowed to speak his opinion, then asked to sit aside. He did so, ever the dutiful Jedi, but his discontent was plain as the case was argued on his behalf by the Warehouse's true caretaker.

Irene Frederic had been one of the original Jedi assigned to the Warehouse. Back then, things had been so in flux, the Warehouse was constantly reinventing itself, and the structure itself was taking on a sort of life of its own. Toward the end of Irene's life, the Warehouse's personality (damned if that didn't take Artie by surprise, a building with feelings) merged with her own , giving voice for the first time to a place that had behaved so badly at first, trying and failing to communicate in meaningfully meddlesome ways.

She was a Force Ghost now, something that the Jedi Master in all his years had only heard legends of before. Mrs. Frederic, as she now preferred to be called, stood before the assembled holograms, but since they all glowed blue in their non-corporeal forms, she naturally looked much like one of them.

At least, he thought, she cast a better light than the damned fungus.

"There is no conclusive evidence to suggest that Miss Wells was directly involved in any attack upon the Republic at any point in history." She said, her ancient dialect curling around her words just enough to give a natural authority to them. "We cannot incarcerate her based simply upon her affiliation with a long-dead empire."

Artie had argued differently. He had argued that, much like any artifact they didn't understand, the Sith be "shelved" again, which was about the most polite way he could suggest throwing her into another stasis field at worst, carbonite at best. They'd finally perfected that method of preservation in the last century. He was pretty sure she'd survive the procedure.

But the Regents, with their own private resources granted them in part by their secret roles and in part by their public ones, held their own discussions and did their own fact-finding. Artie gave his statement, and remained out of courtesy...and for technical support.

"Wise it would be to keep her contained."

The shortest, smallest hologram belonged to the aged and wizened Master Yoda, the only member of the Jedi Order given the role of a Regent. The holgram beside him - a young woman, but perhaps equally wise in her own way - reared back at the suggestion.

"I have to agree with Mrs. Frederic," she remarked. Senator Amidala had been selected as a Regent shortly after her tenure as Queen of Naboo had ended. She was one of two senator Regents, selected for their proven virtue, compassion, and trustworthiness. Even Artie liked them both, and he generally couldn't stand politicians.

"Yes," Bail Organa, the second senator, chimed in, "It would be wrong of us to keep her prisoner for crimes we can't prove she committed. And...even if we could prove her direct involvement in one of the atrocities of the Jedi Civil War, that was so long ago we would have a problem finding legal justification for doing so."

"You could try asking her," responded another woman. She was older, dressed in simple civilian garb, but she had a kind and open face. Artie didn't immediately recognize her, and in fact recognized none of the other (silent) holograms. "I remember reading about the Sith Wars in school...they were never particularly bashful about their deeds. Whatever she did, she might just tell us."

The warehouse agent had to admit the woman had a point.

"A sentence, this is not. For our guest's protection, this would be. Puzzling, James MacPherson's actions were. Finished with you," and the Jedi Master turned to look directly at Artie, "he will never be."

Artie grunted. Master Yoda also had a point.

Artie and James MacPherson had been friends, once. They studied at the Jedi Temple together, battled side by side for years, and then were recruited to the Warehouse at the same time.

And they were a great team of agents.

But James had always seen the world in grey tones, and one day sold an artifact – a Sith holocron of immense and mysterious powers – in an effort to retrieve another artifact. The Regents hadn't approved of his trade, and when the Jedi found out about the sale, they too were exceptionally displeased. And Artie…

Oh, he'd taken it as a personal affront, and their friendship was consequently strained.

But never more so than the day that James MacPherson had willingly left Artie to die on the fiery surface of Mustafar, in pursuit of some mysterious artifact.

He was saved, thankfully with all his limbs singe-free, but the dereliction had not been ignored by the Regents. They had banished MacPherson from the Warehouse, used an ancient artifact to remove all memory of his time as an agent, and let Jedi justice take its course.

But though he did not recall the details of his profession, the dishonored former Jedi still retained some memory of the existence of artifacts, and an abiding hatred for one Arthur Nielsen.

Master Yoda had been the only Jedi they could trust during their early days as an agent, and therefore knew the story all too well. And as one of their former instructors, he was also aware of how relentless and merciless Artie's former partner could be.

"It may do in the meantime to try to talk to our guest," Amidala suggested.

Mrs. Frederic turned to face Artie, a thoughtful expression on her ethereal face. "Arthur, do you think Agent Bering would be able to continue developing a rapport with our Sith guest?"

He shrugged in response. "She has the best chance of all of us. The rest of us just get glared at. Even Dr. Calder, who was healing her at the time, got nothing more than a set of disinterested grunts."

"Then let us see what results Senator Amidala's approach yields us, shall we?"

And so it was settled.

And despite his nonchalance, the Warehouse supervisor was less than pleased.

The rest of the conversation was concluded quickly, since the important business was finished. One by one, the Regents cut their connection, leaving only Artie and Mrs. Frederic.

"So," he toned.

"You seem displeased, Arthur."

He snorted. "Feel that through the Force, did you?"

The glowing wraith before him tilted her head. "Your frown is deeper than usual."

"Yeah, well...I think I'm entitled to frown when it's my life and my people the Regents are putting in danger by keeping that...thing here."

"Miss Wells is still a person, Arthur."

"She's a Sith. You would know better than most what they do to Jedi."

Mrs. Frederic pulled her head back as the words sank in. "Indeed," she said, "which is why you'll understand if I tell you I believe you are letting your own feelings interfere with your judgment in this case."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do."

Artie grunted once more, his favorite non-answer answer. He might be stubborn, but he did understand. "Feel that through the force, did you?"

The noncorporeal form in front of him gave a half grin. "Yes."

"Fine. I'll ask Myka to get what she can out of the Sith. But I warn you - if this goes sour and anything happens to her as a result, I'll personally hold the Regents accountable."

"I would not ask this of Myka if I believed there was a more suitable solution. She may be the most guarded of you all, but she is also the most empathetic. If something goes wrong, Arthur, you may hold me accountable."

That assurance did nothing to stop the ill-ease that sat like a rock in his gut.

/

Myka walked into the living area of their little inn, not at all shocked to discover that she was the first one to wake for breakfast. Claudia and Pete were night owls – Pete stayed up watching holovids and Claudia usually spent her time slicing the holonet. Generally, she arrived in their well-lit dining area first, and seated herself at the large round table such that she could see through the back door and into the lush grotto beyond. Steve Jinks, their usual pilot, was never too far behind her, but he wasn't back from his mission yet.

And Artie usually spent his nights in the Warehouse, and so made an appearance just long enough to grab something to eat before Pete finished off the leftovers.

Leena, per usual, was already up - the Ysanni woman seemed to never sleep, actually, and was always actively engaged in something from cooking marvelous meals for the lot of them to creating some fantastic artpiece to go in one of their rooms to scouring the shelves of the Warehouse, scrupulously turning her eye for balance in the Force on each artifact, making sure they're all in places least likely to interact badly with one another and bring about more harm than they already have.

The sun on Ossus cast hard light at odd times of the day, and in the early morning it beamed through their windows in a way that had taken them all months to get used to. But on the mornings when little sleep could be found by one of them, the light was especially harsh. The Jedi lifted her slender hand and pinched at the bridge of her nose, a night of poor sleep and strange dreams dulling her defenses against the Ossus morning.

And then, recovered, Myka hesitated as she reached the table, turning her eye instead toward the house entrance, and the green door that opened up to the long hallway, toward their captive guest.

"I made her breakfast," the tan-skinned woman said as she entered the dining room from the kitchen. "I was about to take it to her."

Myka smiled softly. "You don't need to do that. I'll go. I'll take my breakfast down there, as well, and a few other things." She held up a handful of datapads. "Artie asked me to keep trying to talk to her, anyway."

"That's wise." Leena retreated momentarily, and returned with two breakfast dishes and two glasses of juice on a sturdy tray. Myka took it gratefully and started toward the green door.

"You'll be fine. She'll warm up to you."

The Jedi stopped with her hand on the door pull. "What makes you so sure?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw full lips pull into a smirk. "I can feel it."

Her boots clacked against the smooth floor of the corridor as she neared the cell, but the Sith didn't move from her spot curled upon the bed. At first, she thought her presence would go unnoticed by the woman, but as she neared, she discovered open, dark eyes watching her every move.

"Good morning, Helena," she said, placing her many burdens on the floor and chair.

"We've discussed the issue of my name, Jedi."

Myka removed her plate and glass before punching a button on the control pad. A small passthrough opened in the field, and Myka slid the tray onto a shelf beyond before punching the button and sealing the gap once more. "And we've discussed the issue of mine." She moved the steel chair by the wall and food to the middle of the hallway, then arranged things such that she could sit and eat and talk. "Leena's an excellent cook. You should eat that before it gets cold."

"And how would I know that it wasn't poisoned? How do I know you do not mean to kill me?"

Myka shook her head. "First, that's not what Jedi do...and most of us are Jedi. Second...honestly, if I meant to kill you, wouldn't I have done that during our journey? You were unconscious for nearly all of it, after all."

The woman inside the cell finally sat up, but her eyes never left Myka. After a few moments, after seeming to come to some form of conclusion, she got up and retrieved the tray before moving her own chair to face the field, to face the Jedi beyond, and sat.

"Thank you, Jedi."

"Myka."

There was no verbal acknowledgment to the reflexive response, but the Sith did begin to eat.

Most of their meal was spent in silence, and Myka watched the other woman for much of that time. Or, really, she watched the Sith watch her in turn, as if both were sizing one another up, forming conclusions about the person on the other side of the forcefield...perhaps in one case, judging the odds of being able to escape.

"What made you follow Revan back from Dromund Kaas?" Myka finally asked.

The other woman was silent for a long time, and it seemed as if the question would go unanswered. But at length...

"What makes you think it was a choice?"

"We always have choices. You could have chosen to stay behind."

"I would have been killed."

Myka shrugged. "That wouldn't be the most favorable scenario, but it would still be a choice to die to maintain your integrity."

Dark tresses spilled over a slender shoulder as a head tilted to the side. "You make it sound like life is so easy, as if choices may be defined as black and white rather than one of the shades of grey between. Or perhaps it would suit your sensibility to assign lightsaber colors? Your blue, my red?"

"There are more saber colors, just as there are generally more than two options."

The Sith looked as if she meant to say something more, but stopped speaking. Instead, she rose to place her empty dishes and the tray back on the shelf. Myka rose, also finished with her meal, and retrieved the tray, but before sealing the portal, pushed several more items through.

"What are those?"

"Um…a few things to help you pass the time. Datapads, filled with more information than the one you have. Some of it is history, including everything I could find on what happened in the Sith Empire while you were gone. Some of it is art. Music. Literature..."

"Please." She was interrupted as Helena flipped the devices over in her hands, a look of disdain fastened on her face. "The drivel the Republic considers literature is hardly fit for children's stories."

The Jedi frowned, unexpectedly affronted by the comment. "It's not so bad. I...uh...I actually went through my personal favorites and listed them for you. There's one in there about the Sith Wars, told from the perspective of an Imperial stormtrooper. It's fiction, but pretty gritty and very well-written. And then there's this one about a bounty hunter so obsessed with this impossible mark that he destroys his life and the lives of those close to him. You don't have to live in a dark empire to be able to produce compelling tales."

Myka had hoped she was being conversational, that the Sith's interest in insulting one of the few things that had made her childhood bearable would spark a deeper conversation. Instead, the other woman laughed as she cast a withering glare back across the forcefield. "Compelling tales? Of your petty politics and your pathetic need for these incorruptible pillars of light that half this galaxy believes Jedi to be? No. You mean to say that your precious Republic needs its fairy tales so that it might not be forced to live in reality...so that it might not be forced to realize its 'heroes' are just as flawed and corruptible and weak as they are."

"But heroes aren't meant to be perfect, Helena. That's what makes these stories so good. The authors acknowledge character flaws and let their heroes grow past them. Your impression of Republic literature is...inaccurate. The best characters in our stories are all deeply scarred."

"And what of your story, Jedi? You wield your lightsaber and pretend to be a hero. What are your flaws? Or do you simply pretend not to have any? What does a Jedi know of struggle or pain? Your Code prohibits them all."

Emotion, passion, ignorance, chaos, death...these were things that, from an early age, Jedi were taught could be overcome, and that meditation and the Force were the vehicles that would help them rise above it. Time and experience taught her jedi brethren a more realistic lesson: they would struggle against their baser natures for the entirety of their lives.

And Myka, ever seeking to be the perfect Jedi, hid that struggle well...but under the surface, the battle raged.

"You'd be surprised," she replied.

But the figure on the other side of the barrier snarled. "By all means, Jedi. Surprise me."

It was then that Myka felt the familiar pang of emotion, of pain and anguish brought about by unhealed emotional wounds. She felt it, then hurriedly shoved it aside and away as she'd long since learned to do, and chose another topic.

"I was raised in a library. My father was an archivist, and my mother was a teacher, but neither one of them had much time for me. So I read a lot before I was identified for training, and I still read when I can." She released a short, soft laugh. "Which isn't much, anymore."

"Is that supposed to elicit my sympathy?"

"It's supposed to give you context." Myka paused to run a hand through her hair. "Look, I don't know a thing about your past, because you're not saying anything about it. I know what you've been through couldn't have been easy, okay? But you've been through a lot and the galaxy has changed."

"I'm still imprisoned. Honestly, my predicament hasn't changed much."

"But it has, don't you see? You can communicate with us now. You can prove you're not a threat."

"Oh, but I am."

The ache from earlier thrummed through her forehead, and Myka pinched between her eyes once more. "You are the last of your kind, Helena. There are no more like you. Your Empire crumbled a thousand years ago! Why would you pursue the agenda of an Imperium you clearly never cared for?"

And for that, at last, the Sith had no answer. Myka felt her body relax slightly, never having felt the tension build in the first place, and it was an unacceptable lapse of control. The woman pushed her buttons so easily, easier than even Pete.

She spared a single thought for why that might be as she gathered the dishes on the tray once more...but then discarded that like so many stray emotions.

"Help us, Helena. Please. You have a chance at freedom here, but try to see it from our side."

The sith stared back at Myka for a long time before finally turning away. She said nothing more...but that was progress.

It's all she could ask for, under the circumstances.

/

"So how was your trip?"

Claudia sat on the opposite side of a plain wooden table in the sunniest room of their home, souped-up datapad disregarded on its surface in favor of the attention of their latest arrival.

"Not nearly as interesting as yours, I hear."

"Dude you just did the Kessel Run in the back-up ship without getting caught by the Hutts. You brought us three crates of really dangerous artifacts to shelve." Claudia paused and pursed her lips. "Actually, I should be really mad at you because now Artie's gonna make me do inventory for the rest of forever, but since the alternative was letting the cartels sell those things on the black market I guess I'll live."

The young man across the table smiled pleasantly as he ran a hand over his buzz-cut blonde head. "You bagged an actual Sith. That pretty much wins."

The young Jedi tapped the table with her nails. "Yeah, well. We also met MacPherson. I'm not sure that was worth it."

Claudia watched as her friend's clear blue eyes narrowed. "He got away?"

"Yeah."

"Claud...should I have been there?"

The padawan sighed.

Steve Jinks was something special. Really, they all were, but where Pete and Myka were a little too old to be anything closer than big brother and sister to Claudia, Steve was the best friend she'd never known she needed until he started working for the Warehouse as a pilot.

And he was the best kind of pilot.

He grew up on a freighter, running the galaxy's trade routes with his mother and sister, and could pilot almost any vessel by the time he turned 12. He also had an uncanny knack for telling whether or not someone was lying, and it came in handy during some of the family's rougher transactions. When he came of age, he had opted to go fly starfighters for the Republic Fleet, but was just shy of graduating from the academy when he'd received word that his sister had been killed during a seemingly legitimate trade that went south in a hurry.

He blamed himself. He told Claudia that he should have been there to help Olivia, and that his ambition had gotten in the way. His mother, of course, told a different story and convinced him to stay in the fleet, and he had until the Warehouse recruited him.

Shortly before Artie picked up MacPherson's trail again, word had come of a black market auction for several dozen high-priority artifacts. It was being hosted by the same cartel that had killed his sister.

Steve had pretty much single-handedly hatched the plot to steal the shipments before they ever made it to the auction site. No one could tell if it would let the young man forgive himself, but they all knew it couldn't hurt.

"No," Claudia replied, at last. "He was pretty much in hyperspace before we could even detect his ship. That old warship started disintegrating the second he pulled Wells out of stasis. There were so many moving masses it was tough to navigate to safety, let alone follow him."

He leaned back, but the padawan didn't need the Force to tell he was conflicted. "Hey," she continued, "I'm serious, Jinksy. We were more focused on surviving than catching him, and in the end we actually got what he was looking for."

The young man frowned. "That's not really the best news, Claud. I mean, we've heard stories. That man is devious. What if he comes looking for our relic?"

"We're pretty well protected, you know. It'd be tough for him to find his way through, even if he did remember where we are."

Steve shook his head. "I got to talk to some of my old Fleet friends on this trip. The Separatists are looking for any advantage they can find, and they're paying well thanks to the Banking Clan's deep pockets. I'm not sure it's him I'm really worried about."

"What do you mean?"

The young redhead was about to ask that very question. But Myka, emerging from the green door holding a tray with empty dishes, beat her to it. And the older woman looked…

Well, she'd seen Myka tired before, but this was different.

"Hey, Myka…are you okay?"

The woman in question glanced at the padawan as she set her tray on the table before returning her gaze to the newly-arrived pilot. "What do you mean you're not really worried about MacPherson? How well are they paying, and why would it matter?"

The man's blue eyes widened as her insistence registered. "I…uh…I mean it's not just black market artifacts they're buying up. Weapons, ammunition, mercenaries, bounty hunters…they'll be buying off the actual cartels next. They're already buying everything on the market, and let's be realistic – my little heist is probably not going to help the Republic's cause. They'd be right to blame the side that isn't paying top dollar for their wares."

"We expected that. We knew they'd be looking for any advantage they could find."

Steve took a breath, pulling his head back a bit as he did, and swallowed. "There's…uh…also rumor of a bounty. Anyone that can find the Warehouse will be handed more credits than all of Coruscant could spend in a year. We've crossed out of the realm of rumor. The Separatists are actively hunting us, and the cartels would happily take that paycheck."

Claudia narrowed her eyes as she watched the knight absorb the information. Myka was the analyst of their group. I mean, sure, so was Artie, but Myka picked up details that even the old grump didn't see. The connections Myka made in her head were intricate, but accurate. Where Pete's vibes alerted them with enough time to get clear of an explosion or something, Myka's ability to find incongruent details had saved them from more than a handful of ambushes.

As the elder agent lifted her hand to the bridge of her nose and winced, the padawan realized that something was deeply disturbing her friend, and it wasn't a criminal syndicate.

"Mykes…come on. What's bugging you?"

"I'm fine, Claud," she responded. "I just need to..." but her voice cut off abruptly, and she quickly retreated to the bedroom wing.

Claudia turned to Steve, eyes wide and palms out as if asking for some kind of explanation.

"Well...that was a lie," he supplied.


	4. Chapter 4

Myka Bering has always been a stellar student.

Even in her early childhood in the excellent education system on Alderaan, Myka had excelled as a pupil. Her teachers praised her ability to retain information, and her ravenous pursuit of it. Learning came naturally to her – the daughter of the administrator of the Royal Library should have a natural and unquenchable thirst for information.

At least, that's what her father always told her.

But even before she started training as a Jedi, Myka had learned what it meant to be a disappointment. Her teachers may have raved about her…but it never seemed to be enough for her parents. She was a lonely child, even at seven when the Jedi identified her as Force-sensitive and asked her to study at the Jedi Temple.

Moving to Coruscant, training to be a Jedi, there was no higher praise to be sought. She worked hard, studied hard, and it had paid off in results – there were few, if any, that could best her in saber combat, and there were few, if any, as aware of the history of the Jedi Order as she was. She studied and meditated upon the Jedi Code daily, trying hard to perfect it within herself. Excellence made for a lonely life, however – her dedication rubbed off as arrogance to other padawans, and the only person she could trust in her early life became her master, a young human knight named Sam Martino.

It made her happy to serve the Republic, and she was grateful for his leadership and friendship. She learned so much from him, and his kindness and patience were traits she could aspire to. And like any master and padawan, they had shared a special bond.

She had been days away from completing her trials, days away from becoming a knight, when a mission went sideways and Sam was killed. A miscommunication, apparently, between two people who rarely misunderstood each other. Myka blamed herself for so many reasons, but beyond the guilt she shouldered over the death of someone she held in the highest regard, she'd also lost her only friend in the galaxy.

The council saw fit to grant her knighthood after the incident, but she didn't feel like she deserved it. She felt like that frightened, lonely seven year old that had arrived on Coruscant so long ago.

At nearly thirty years of age, a knight for several years and on her way to mastery, Myka was at a point in her life where that loneliness was abated by the family she'd found at the Warehouse. She cared for and relied on each of the agents, and they cared for and relied on her, in turn. It healed something in her she hadn't realized was broken.

The first line of the Jedi Code read, "there is no emotion, there is peace." Emotion was something she had struggled against for most of her life. Her life on Alderaan had been…painful, as had her life as a padawan before being given over to Sam for training. Losing him was even harder.

Her need to be the best Jedi she could be had forced all that pain down, buried it deep enough she didn't even know it was there most of the time. She could keep her emotions in check. She could be excellent.

But lately, it took everything inside her to keep that hard-won control. Her headaches had become more frequent in the past few days, and she'd become…moody.

And in the days that went by, so had their Sith guest.

Myka visited the woman in the cell three times a day, delivering her every meal, and was met with little more than a curt thank you each time. She did not volunteer information, she did not engage in conversation, and her continued distrust of her Jedi keepers steadily became more and more apparent.

It was frustrating, but the sharp and seething thrum of something greater that inexplicably lanced through her every time was decidedly more sinister.

And where Myka Bering had faced greater challenges than one obstinate woman, her ability to control her emotions was eroding more and more as time ticked by, and no amount of meditation could shake the feeling that something was…

Not really wrong, and not just off.

Missing, maybe. A tether, an inner strength that she'd been able to draw upon in her moments of conflict before that was simply nowhere to be found. And without it, she felt vulnerable in a way she hadn't felt since she was a child.

She reasoned that it had to be a result of some kind of ill-seated sympathy for their guest. She reasoned that, perhaps, there was a detail she was missing, and maybe her tenuous state was just the Force reaching out to her and telling her to look harder for the answers she sought.

There were times that she would walk down the hallway and catch the sith reading, but she couldn't be sure what. It might have been history, it might have been literature…and the second, given their last conversation, was unlikely. She tried to engage the woman, to draw her into discourse about whatever it was.

It failed, of course.

"So…how is the crazy lady in the room with a view?"

Myka sighed. "Silent," she replied. "And be nice, Pete."

"Me? I'm always nice."

The man plopped down next to her on the cozy sofa in their small study. It wasn't much – a window at the far wall over a small wooden writing desk, and a wall of bookshelves across from a two-seat couch on the opposite wall, a far cry from the massive libraries elsewhere…including the one in the warehouse itself.

And yet, it was Myka's preferred retreat when her mind was at odds with itself, because no one else ever used the space.

"You're nice when you're fed."

Her partner made a noise that sounded a bit like a laugh, and the rest like a snort. "And we all know I like me some grub, so I'm nice most of the time."

Myka lifted a thumb to the bridge of her nose and pressed inward. "She's not crazy, Pete."

"Fine. Evil. Whatever."

"That's not true, either. Stop it."

"What? Mykes, her eyes get all fiery and scary when you try to talk to her. I mean, I like to think I'm a pretty charming guy, but she has all the charm of a rancor…and maybe the fangs, I'm scared to check."

The description of this woman – quiet and surly, yes, but certainly not as openly hostile as Pete effused – gave her pause.

"She has manners. She says please, thank you..."

"...and curse you, and I'll fry you in a Force Storm if you don't let me out..."

Myka frowned. "She says that to you? Really?"

He shrugged. "Occasionally. No. Maybe. She's a little...bipolar, you know?"

"She's also not used to being social anymore...and you know what? After that much time alone, Pete, you'd forget how to be gracious, too."

Pete reared back immediately and held up his arms. "Whoa, Mykes! Stand down! I'm just making an observation!"

"And so am I, Pete. You're being insensitive. Stop it."

The man shrugged. "Maybe it's just men."

Myka was tempted to give that idea some credence, but dismissed it.

"She's not evil," she reasserted. "You have to think about it, Pete. She's been alone, trapped inside her mind, for four thousand years. How lonely must that have been? How painful?"

"Oh, man…you know, I'd be bored in a week, probably less. I'd be so desperate in two days I'd be willing to play Holochess with a wookie just for the company."

Myka stood suddenly, startling her companion.

"Whoa, Mykes! I wasn't serious! I'd never do that! I mean, come on….what's the fun in letting the wookie win?"

"No…no, you just reminded me..." She walked into the main hallway, to a battered chest in the corner, and looked through the items on its shelves until coming free with a round, silver and black contraption.

"Oh, man, Mykes…that's pretty cruel. And where are you gonna get a wookie?"

"I'm the wookie, Pete."

She walked toward the green door and through it as her partner called out something about her having the right color hair, but not enough of it.

She studiously ignored his next comment about her temperament suiting the role as the door slid shut behind her.

The Sith looked up as Myka neared the cell, her expression carefully neutral. Myka's gaze – constantly gathering data for her mind to catalog and store – took note of the way the woman's already-unnatural pallor had progressed, but if she bore any discomfort, those symptoms were well-hidden beneath an air of defiance.

But her eyes seemed to express at least a mild curiosity at Myka's new tactic.

"What's this, then?"

Myka smiled. It was the first question she had asked in days. Without answering, she hefted the thing onto the shelf, pressed the keypad, and shoved it through to the other side.

"It's a holochess table. I…I completely forgot that I told you I would bring it. I thought it would be a good thing to pass some time…with…"

But the other woman's attention was on the game board. She moved it from the shelf first, then placed it on the floor and activated it, watching the holographic characters with a strange and eerie sense of awe.

Myka got the distinct feeling that there was something...personal...about the game.

As the holographic creatures flickered to life, each in their designated starting spaces, Helena ran her hands through their images. The chesspieces protested, whirling intangible weapons to hit the offending appendage, and the other woman's stoic mask finally cracked.

"I had a daughter," she started, drawing her brow together. "Christina. I left her in the care of an old teacher of mine. She was brilliant...beautiful..."

She shook her head in that subtle and slow way that always seems to accompany regret. "But she was a liability. I had to keep her a secret, or she would have been used against me."

A slender finger trailed across the surface of the board, and the pieces finally settled down again.

"My old teacher, Chaturanga, loved holochess. It was his obsession. He was the one who taught me how to play, and I taught Christina. It was her favorite game, as well..."

Like the endless tides on the ocean world of Manaan, understanding washed over Myka at once. The solemn-looking woman before her had very explicitly stated that the choices presented to her four thousand years ago – to obey a command from her Emperor and leave for Republic space with Revan, or to stay behind and be killed for her insolence - had been complicated.

"You left Dromund Kaas to prove yourself, because proving yourself and gaining power was the best way to ensure her safety."

Helena's face was soft, almost mournful, when her finger found the power button and turned the board off with a sharp stab. "Now you understand, Jedi, that not all beings in the universe are granted the luxury of choice." The woman took one last, long look at the holochess board before turning her back on it, on her Jedi visitor, and returned to her bed.

"I…I'm sorry." Myka offered, not sure what else to say.

"I don't need your pity."

The woman beyond the barrier was silent for a long time, and Myka was almost certain that the conversation was at an end, that she had failed in what might have been her last, best hope at getting the woman to talk.

But she reached to the bedside table and picked up a datapad.

"I was wrong."

Half-turned to walk away in defeat when the words reached her ears, Myka turned with a confused expression on her face. "What do you mean?"

The Sith sighed. "Your Republic's literature. It's…not so bad. I've even found some remnants of the literature we once kept dear in the Empire. I found…"

The woman lifted her eyes upward, toward the ceiling, and for the briefest of moments, Myka could swear she saw tears pooling in her dark eyes.

"Imagine my surprise when I even came across one of my own works in your collection."

The Jedi could do nothing to disguise the astonishment in her voice. "You…you wrote?"

"Voraciously. I wrote stories to my Christina about adventure and triumph, about discovery and victory. I wrote one tale…"

She cast her eyes downward, perhaps deciding how much to confide in a woman she clearly didn't trust over the space of a heartbeat, before lifting her gaze to meet that of her jailer.

"I wrote one to her, just before I departed, about a scientist that was imprisoned for thousands of years and awoke to a very different world." Helena shook her head. "How could I have known I was writing my own future?"

Myka's keen memory was quick to recall that the literature available to her Sith guest was all hand-picked, and of all the plots available…"Wait…a story about a…a time traveler?"

"Yes. I called it The Chronic Argonauts."

The puzzle pieces fell together, and Myka gasped in shock. "You're…you're Edward Prendick?"

"One in the same."

"Oh…my…"

Her father was a harsh man, a perfectionist, a curator of facts and stories. He had never lived any of them, though he lived in them all the time, and Myka had never really understood her father in the time they had together.

But he had, when she was girl, managed to find one thing in common with his daughter.

"My father would read those stories to me when I was little."

It was the only thing the pair of them had ever bonded over.

The dark brown gaze on the other side of the field shifted, and some quickly-squelched emotion flickered within it. Myka thought it might have been a shade of the same realization she'd come to: that through space and time, she had shared something remarkable with this woman's daughter.

"I'm sorry about your little girl," she offered.

"Your sympathy is not warranted. You did not steal me away from her."

"No, but…" Myka had certainly given time to contemplating the predicament of the woman before her in the last few days, and she had realized long ago that the demands they were placing on her were…harsh. After so long locked in her own mind with only the Force to keep her company, they had essentially restored her body but robbed her of the thing that had been her only companion for far too long to fathom. And it had disturbed her…maybe it had been part of what had been bothering her for days.

And before she could stop herself, before she even realized what she was doing, she had crossed to the control pad and let her fingers brush over and press the primary button.

In the space between them, a blue field flickered, then died, and at once that nagging worry began to ease itself. In its place came a certainty, a rightness, as if the Force itself approved of this course of events.

And Helena closed her eyes, perhaps as her familiar companion came rushing back to her. At once the pallor that she'd contracted began to ease, bringing the skin on her face back to a suitably lively color, if still unnaturally pale.

"I have something to show you," the Jedi offered, and still at her spot by the wall, she held out her hand for the other woman to take. And she eyed it suspiciously, as any caged and battered animal might distrust a sudden offer of mercy.

"This is dangerous for you," she replied. "Is it not folly to allow your enemy access to her greatest weapon?"

"We are not enemies, Helena," Myka replied. "I wish you would believe that."

The Sith did not reply, but neither did she refute the assertion. Instead, she gingerly placed her hand in the one offered.

"Lead on, Jedi," she responded.

She led them down the long corridor and back through the green door, then through the house. They didn't linger, though it occurred to Myka that this was the first civilized dwelling the other woman had seen in millenia, and she wondered what the word 'civilized' meant on Dromund Kaas four thousand years ago. She had in her hands a treasure trove of living history, and the scholar in her wanted little more than to sit her down and pick that brilliant brain clean.

But first, she wanted only to show her companion through the back door.

Ossus's lush jungles were inhospitable, filled with unnaturally fierce predators thanks to the strong connection the planet enjoyed with the Force, and perhaps the overwhelming presence of the artifacts within the confines of the massive warehouse. But Leena had managed to carve out and tame a spacious grotto for the purpose of planting a garden, and in the years since the place had become a paradise.

The outer walls were covered in fruit-bearing vine, and were lush with produce of deep red and dark purple, and the interior was arranged in a pattern with planters that held trees and shrubs and vegetables of all colors from all over the galaxy.

And in the middle, serving as an irrigation system as well as one of the most beautiful features of the grotto, stood a round, flowing fountain.

The newcomer inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly.

"What is it?" Myka asked.

"It…it smells familiar. I hadn't expected it. We had this fruit on Dromund Kaas called an apple…it smells like apples here."

"Well then, I hope you like them."

A dark head nodded. "This is lovely," Helena whispered.

Myka stopped at a nearby tree, filled with giant leaves the color of the sunset in her childhood home, and plucked a plump, deep purple fruit from a low-hanging branch before handing it to the other woman.

The sith's dark eyes scrutinized the fruit carefully, as if still trying to decide once again if Myka meant to poison her. The Jedi sighed.

"You hold such disdain for my order, and yet you do not trust us to follow those tenants which you hate so much. Why would I kill you now?"

"Because we both breathe," Helena replied, "and it is the nature of all living things to covet the air."

"It is the nature of the Jedi to share it." And to illustrate her point, she bit into the fruit, revealing a juicy, bright pink core, and swallowed her bite before offering it once again.

A tightness in the Sith's shouldered eased, a nearly imperceptible change that Myka couldn't help but pick up, and at last a slender, pale hand reached out to take the fruit and lift it to another set of lips.

It was a wonder to watch Helena as she tasted it. It was a tart sweetness, and one of Myka's favorites, and so she could imagine the unfamiliar flavor as it rolled across the tongue and invaded the senses. The other woman's eyes closed, and for the first time her face relaxed into less rigid, almost pleasured lines.

And in that moment, Myka Bering was made to witness how stunningly beautiful Helena Wells truly was.

"Not bad, huh?"

The other woman genuinely smiled, and Myka was amazed by how beautiful a sight it was. "I'm certain I have never tasted anything like it. What is it called?"

"It's called a kavasa fruit, from Correlia. Leena has somehow, pretty much miraculously cultivated plants from each of our homeworlds and...and they actually grow. She's a miracle-worker."

"Are you from Correlia, then? The engineering capitol?"

Myka laughed. "No...that's Pete. I'm from Alderaan."

"Ah, I've heard of that world, as well. Highly regarded for its noble people, mountainous but lush and beautiful. Revan spoke of it often...I confess, I have long wished to visit it."

For all the poor memories of her childhood, the Jedi did miss the open landscape and refined terrain of her homeworld. "Maybe you'll get that chance one day."

They wandered the grotto, and Myka was happy to see the pale woman pause and examine plants with an expression that spoke of curiosity rather than the malice she had clung to, and of ease where there had been so much distrust. And beyond the visible, beyond the tangible, she could feel the way the Force flowed into her and through her, as if she were a catalyst for some important event yet to be determined.

And Myka could feel the way it wrapped around her own presence and connected them, as if the woman beside her was actually most important to her own destiny.

Myka had no idea what to do with that, but it was completely forgotten when Helena looked up into the sky and smiled.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "I have missed this feeling."

"Of being connected to the Force?"

The low chuckle indicated a private joke, but once again the Sith opened her eyes, gaze directed at the clouds high above.

"The sky. Trees. Sunlight. I've been in space for so long, and when we arrived..."

The Jedi hadn't really considered that. The focus had been on...other things. Protection. Staying hidden. "I wish there was a way to keep you safe without keeping you sequestered like that."

And to Myka's surprise, there was no smug or snide reply on the other woman's lips.

"What if I attempt escape? No...I have been wretched to you, and as your prisoner this is an opportunity you could not strategically allow. I should not be out here at the moment no matter what the circumstances."

"It's fair to be wary. I'm sorry…you've had no reason to trust us beyond our word."

The Sith shook her head. "No. and yet, I find myself inclined to trust you, at least, despite my continued captivity. For now."

"Helena, do not consider yourself a prisoner of the Jedi, or a prisoner at all."

The dark gaze finally returned to earth, returned to pierce Myka with their depth and intensity. "I am quite familiar with the feeling of imprisonment. You may call it what you wish, and justify it however you care to. The result is the same. I am kept behind a barrier, cut off from the Force, for your protection."

"It is not just for our protection…it is for yours."

Seated beside the fountain, secured in privacy by the tall rock walls that spilled and filtered the water for their secluded paradise, Myka sighed.

"We've picked up some ping from the Republic's Strategic Information Service. James MacPherson is hunting us...and, for some reason, is determined to find you specifically. Whatever he thought he could find in the Leviathan, it's still important to him. He wants his artifact. And he wants us, too."

"Let him come," the Sith spat. "I'll meet him at the end of a saber."

Myka had to respect the woman's independence. "It's not so simple. We think he's a Separatist. He'll come with an army, and he'll stop at nothing."

Understanding dawned on Helena's face. "And this place must remain secret."

"If they found it...if they used the artifacts here to help wage their war against the Republic..."

Myka stopped as a cool hand brushed across her own, as her heart quickened and the breath left her chest.

"You must return me to my cell. I am a liability as long as I can be detected."

"Helena-"

But the other woman stood, and Myka felt the absence of her touch. Without guidance or escort, she made her way back through the grotto and into the house. The Jedi followed, struggling to keep up with the rapid clip of the other woman's stride through the living area, back through the green door, and down the long hallway. When she caught up, the Sith stood still in the center of her cell, and Myka could tell why.

In her absence, Leena had apparently taken it upon herself to freshen the place up. There were small plants scattered across the shelves, and a short but beautiful arrangement of cut flowers on the small table beside the bed.

And to the side, on a proper desk instead of the small, plain table that had been there before, sat a bowl overflowing with fruit.

"It has been a long time since I have been shown kindness," Helena whispered, so low that Myka could scarcely hear it.

"We will find MacPherson," she swore, "and then..."

"You will not set me free."

Myka was silent for a long time, because the truth was she wasn't sure what would happen. "And yet we can't keep you here forever."

The sight gave a short, mirthless laugh. "You would be surprised the many ways one might become a slave."

"It's not like that. The Jedi don't enslave people."

"You are a slave to your own Jedi Code, my dear. I can feel it below the surface of your mind. Your struggle against your emotions. I feel it now, your anger and pain pushing against the carefully-constructed barrier. And perhaps something else." The other woman turned from the interior of the cell. "As I said, I am quite familiar with imprisonment...and you most certainly carry the look of a woman trapped."

Myka clenched her jaw. In a sense, she could see Artie's point in that moment, that with a silver tongue and quick mind, the Sith was another dangerous artifact to be kept. But her heart – and the part of her head that didn't fear that the Sith was right - were at odds with that sentiment. The statement was made without malice, even though its impact was meant to sting. It was indecent to keep the other woman confined after her safety was guaranteed...and there was a kinship, an affection for the woman that left Myka inclined to believe in her.

"Some of us do care about your future, you know," she said, "But you were once a part of the greatest invading force this galaxy has seen. It's fair to expect – to allow for yourself – a period of readjustment. Would you rather that be here, where at least you may have something to do separate of the Order? Or would you prefer Coruscant, at the temple?"

"Bondage in either case," came the remark.

"With the hope of redemption..and despite what you are and what you claim to be, Helena, I do believe in you. Just..." She sighed and shook her head. "Just think it over."

She was reluctant to activate the barrier, to trap the other woman away from the Force again, but what time she had spent beyond the cell was already a risk. She lowered the forcefield and, with a sigh, turned, meaning to leave the Sith to think.

But she had her own questions to reason out. Why was she was so willing to walk back into that cell if she considered it imprisonment? The familiar ill-ease began to creep back upon her as she contemplated it.

She'd barely taken a step when the soft voice of the Sith lord stopped her.

"Myka...in all honesty, I thank you. You, who have shown me the most kindness. You, above all, which I do not wish to endanger."

The words struck her as powerfully as anything else that afternoon had, and the woman had answered the Jedi's own silent questions as if she were still connected to the Force, and somehow to her.

And despite the way Helena's soft voice and solemn words knocked her off balance, the keen mind behind emerald eyes had picked up one tiny detail that made all the difference.

For the first time since finding the other woman on the relic Leviathan, Helena had addressed Myka by name.

/

That night was dark – deep clouds covered the stars and obscured the night sky, and the still, heavy air muted the sounds of the jungle. In her bed, listless in the humidity and sleepless once again, Myka shifted to get comfortable.

She replayed the events of the afternoon in her head, remembered the peace she felt strolling through the garden with Helena at her side, and relived the relief it had brought. For the first time since they had arrived home, she felt the Force as it should be, as a harmony in her soul as opposed to a discordant note.

But now that flat note was back, and she knew something wasn't right.

The lightning of a coming storm lit her quarters up just a bit, followed shortly after by distant thunder. Or, not so distant as it was closely followed, but the dense blanket of water vapor served to muffle its roar.

Her studies of Jedi history were littered with instances where the force began to feel different to a user. She recalled few of such cases ending well, always resulting in a breach of the Jedi Code one way or another. And she didn't feel fear – no, she refused to allow such a dangerous feeling to take root - but to say she was concerned was a vast understatement.

But there was something about the strange symptoms, something familiar and oh so close…

The thunder rolled once more as she thought, remembered, tried to find the thread of memory and pull it back together…

…But then Pete burst into her room as another flash of lightning made the walls glow, and she saw the alarm in his eyes as he yelled for everyone to wake up.

"Pete?"

Her partner turned to look at her with an emotion that skirted the very thing she was trying not to feel.

"Vibe. " he rasped.

And no sooner had he said it than a loud crash and a bright flash filled the room once more.

The crash was not thunder, and the flash was not lightning.


	5. Chapter 5

Thunder.

Lightning.

The charge in the atmosphere as a storm rolled in.

Helena's skin tingled with the change, and she reveled in the sensation of looming weather. Even through the shield, even blocked off from the force as she was, there was a slight and subtle shift in the texture of the air.

It had been so long since she'd seen a storm.

Though the view wasn't much through the high, reinforced plastisteel windows, it afforded her a glimpse of a warm sky during the day and an endless starfield at night. Tonight, she could see the clouds as the lightning arced across them.

The sky was lit with a dull orange glow, the power of the electrical storm giving light where there typically was not any. That dull glow set across gunmetal grey clouds reminded her of another place, and another time.

Dromund Kaas had been a dark world even in the daylight. There were creatures and plants on its surface that did more to illuminate the land than the distant sun. Yet what the sun failed to do with light, the planets warm geothermal core made up for, and life was able to flourish on the dark planet. What survived, however, was brutal and hard and cold, and the Sith way of life reflected the nature of the world it called its capitol.

Her homeworld had been at once a wonder of nature and a prison of sorrow, and the rolling storm reminded her of both.

Her father had been a well-respected officer in the Imperial Fleet, but like so many that crossed the wrong Dark Lord, he was killed, his property distributed to his killer's favorites, and his family forced into slavery. At 12, Helena had lost track of her mother and brother, forced to serve and scrape and degrade herself according her master's whims. At 16, she unexpectedly found herself with child. It was a mark of shame in the aristocratic world she had grown up in, but she could feel the tiny life within her from its earliest days, and was inexplicably driven to protect it. One harrowing night, afraid for both their lives as her master approached her with his favorite weapon, she instinctively and blindly reached out with the Force and crushed his feeble mind.

Because her world valued brute strength over justice, those actions did not earn her punishment. They earned her a spot in the Sith Academy, instead.

She might have become just like the rest of the Sith she encountered there, had it not been for her daughter. The precious, helpless little thing was such a strong presence in her mind and the Force even before birth, one that would require a careful kind of protection from the dangers of her mother's life. Should Helena ever fall to another Lord, he would do with her property and family exactly what had been done to her father, and under no circumstances would she allow any child of hers to become a slave. So she bore the child in secret just before her training began and left the child in her old tutor's care, a man with a fondness for puzzles and a kind and gentle heart despite the culture they lived in, and made her way through the academy as the brightest and most promising acolyte in memory. She did what was necessary, cultivated the careful façade of an adept and ambitious student whose primary care was for the Empire, and herself besides. It was an illusion that served her well, and drew all malevolent attention into the swift and adept trap of her whirling saber blades.

It was a comfort, in a way, to lie beneath a familiar sky that she had long ago given up hope of ever seeing again. It was also a bitter sting. Citizens of the Sith Empire viewed attachment and sentimentality as weakness, and its elite members – its Lords – were meant to be the very embodiment of the values the Empire had been founded upon. And so when the storm made her long for the people that had given substance to her life - for a beloved old teacher and a precious daughter, both so long gone – the impulse was at odds with her nature.

Four thousand years alone with her mind and the Force for company had only made the matter worse.

Her mind and spirit had always been in conflict with her environment. In those long, lonely years, she spent a great deal of time evaluating her tenure at the Academy, where the Force spoke to her in a way it seemed to speak to no other. It led her away from the uncontrolled rage that wasted so many acolytes. Rage was a tool, a fuel during battle that gave her just enough extra to carry her past an enemy's boundaries, but never the only fuel. She had learned long ago that having something greater than herself to fight for was a far more effective survival incentive than the simple lust for power.

That difference in her personal philosophy was perhaps why she had so willingly taken the mission to accompany Revan back to Republic space. She recognized in him the same drive and desire, the same conflict within him that she felt, and he had recognized that kindred spirit within her. They formed a friendship, something that rarely happened between two Lords.

In stasis, her relationship, her motivations, her origins, and the role the Force played in her life were all things she could spend far too much time meditating upon.

At first, she had thought that the absence of the Force would be a relief after so much time attached to it, after so long joined with it actively in an attempt to keep the ancient Leviathan from falling apart. Instead, she found nearly immediately that she missed it like an amputated appendage, but perhaps far more keenly than she would miss a hand or a foot. Locked within her cell, she was subject to an isolation and a loneliness she had never felt. The ache within her grew day over day, until she shared some sympathy with those certain animal species that would sooner chew their own limb off than remain confined in a trap.

Unlike her typical even temper, she found herself growing cold and angry as time passed. She felt untethered, ungrounded, and exposed. It made her lash out in ways that her aristocratic upbringing should not have allowed for. Despite having been reconnected with the Force earlier in the day, she was already falling back into the same foul temper that had settled within her over the last few days.

Oh, but the welcome relief of being able to touch that power once more had been…heavenly.

And so had Myka Bering.

When the shield was lowered on her cell it was like the release of a tourniquet, only instead of blood rushing from an injury the Force flowed through her and into her, as vital as air or water. Myka's presence was the first thing she sensed. It flooded her with warmth, surrounded her, wrapped her in a kind of comfort she could no longer remember. As awful as she had been to the woman – to all of them – she felt instant regret when the Jedi's true nature revealed itself. Oh, there was darkness and fear, and she had perhaps thoughtlessly remarked upon it, but of all the Jedi she had ever encountered, Myka's spirit was the closest to that ideal they all strove to become.

Any other Sith would have been disgusted, but Helena Wells was far more practical than that. Instead she had enjoyed her afternoon with the Jedi, finding her kindness and brightness beautiful and alluring despite how very foreign it was to a child of the Empire. As the daylight waned and the forcefield was raised between them once more, Helena was surprised to discover it was not her connection to the Force she would miss most.

She wasn't sure what to make of that, yet, but the knowledge had left her with a lingering guilt over her treatment of the only being left in the universe that she might consider a friend.

It was, she mused, highly un-Sithly of her.

Her lips thinned into a quirked grin as she realized that didn't bother her at all.

She had never aspired to become one, after all. She had been thrust into the academy, then made to kill or be killed. She had seen the value in success in the Sith Order, but she had only ever wished to use it to protect Christina.

In time, she had trusted Revan with that information, as he had trusted her with his own true purpose.

In their conversations, he had often made mention of a place between dark and light that neither the Jedi nor the Sith would ever acknowledge existed. They spoke at length about such contested philosophies on their long journey back to Republic space, and then again often in the aftermath of their battles. He had fallen from the light - far from the light - but he fought for his Republic as much as he fought against it. He knew that when the Sith invaded with more than a simple scouting party, the wonders of his home would be destroyed. And so he set out to teach the foolish Jedi Council and the addled Galactic Senate what their poor preparation would yield them if they took no action. In willingly becoming their greatest enemy, he also became their savior.

Helena had admired that purpose, had even understood it though it was her place to see his mission succeed. And in the end, Helena had defended him and his mission even before consideration of her own life.

The thunder rolled, palpable but silent inside her shielded cell, and the lightning illuminated the hall and the room and the spartan décor. She smiled – secluded within a stasis field for so long, she had come to the conclusion that his vision of civilization spoke to her so fervently because it was exactly the kind of utopia she wished for her child, one where strength was valued as much as intelligence, and where justice was sought rather than avoided. Revan had been right all along - they had both been as grey as the storm clouds, as grey as the sky above Kaas City in daylight. Despite their adherence to a set of rules very different from those of the Jedi Code, neither of them were ever truly Sith…

…but Malak was.

Once again the lightning struck, brighter, and once again the thunder rolled, and it shook the earth and her cage. Her chair and the small table beside her bed toppled, the datapads on the shelves rattled off their perch and struck the ground with loud clacks, and the vase of bright flowers crashed to the floor.

The forcefield shimmered, quivered all over, and then disappeared.

She was again connected to the Force, and gasped as the extrasensory awareness it granted assaulted her senses as if that missing limb had suddenly and painfully grown back. And with that awareness…

There was pain, and hurt, from somewhere beyond the walls she'd spent the last week within, and it slammed into her. Her breath was stolen by it sharpness, and the impact was like a physical blow.

The sensation brought her to her knees.

/

The world was bright. Every sense lit up, flared, and agonized as it was overloaded.

And then, darkness.

Seconds, minutes, maybe days later, she woke to the muffled sound of chaos, the sight of blurred, ominous colors, and pain in her head. The rest of her senses began to rush in one by one – she could smell thick smoke, taste the distinctive metallic tang of blaster fire in the air, and through the Force and the ringing in her own ears she could faintly feel a familiar presence cry out in alarm.

Then Pete was beside her, reaching, his yelling still muffled but mostly discernible.

"Myka! Myka!"

She felt arms around her, the pull of skin and tattered clothing as she was hauled away from where she was to some other place, darker but less chaotic. Her vision returned as the smoke cleared, and she realized Pete had pulled her out of the wreckage that used to be her quarters, into the mostly intact hallway further into their home.

"Mykes!"

"I'm here, Pete. I'm okay."

The world grew easier to take in by the second, but their tranquil home was now anything but. There was smoke and ash everywhere, rolling like a fog through gaping holes in the house, and the interior walls were lit by the bright flames from various points of impact.

"Are you all right?!" The question came from the youngest member of the group, her voice laced with no small amount of alarm.

"I'm fine, Claudia," she answered reflexively, not at all certain it was the truth.

"You can't be all right, Mykes…you should see you."

She ignored the comment and glanced at the others, noting their injuries for the first time. Leena had abrasions across her dark face, and Artie held his left elbow gingerly. Steve leaned heavily against Claudia, who looked like she'd actually walked through a fire. And Pete…"

There was a nasty-looking burn where he'd grabbed at whatever she had been trapped beneath. His shirt was so singed he would have done better not to wear it at all.

Her head ached, badly, and when Leena took it within her grasp and placed her hand over what must have been a pretty deep gash, she winced and hissed.

"Hold still," the woman said. "It'll be over in a second."

True to her word, it was. The woman was a gifted healer – a gifted great many things, actually. The pain eased immediately, and the wound began to heal itself. There would be a massive bump, probably some bruising, but for now she was fit enough to defend herself.

She was always amazed by the depths of Leena's talents.

"Mykes…how are you still alive after that?"

"You warned me," she replied, not at all sure her answer was sufficient even for herself. "I managed to throw up a barrier."

Pete looked unconvinced, but grunted as she righted herself and glanced through the opening that used to be a door. Myka could see her saber on the floor, hidden below some rubble that might once have been her dresser. With little more than a thought, she summoned it to her hand.

"I'm fine, Pete." She pushed away from him and swayed for just a moment as her equilibrium caught back up with her, but swatted away the many hands that came up to help. "We need to get to safety. Whatever that was…"

Her voice trailed off – the hole in their home led straight out into the courtyard, to where a Separatist shuttle had landed, and where several mercenaries were removing themselves and assembling as an invasion force.

At the rear, dressed in dark black robes and wearing a sinister smile stood James MacPherson.

"They're here for Helena." The realization hit her just a fraction of a second before it escaped her lips. "We have to stop them."

Pete frowned, and gingerly put his hand on her shoulder.

"You're worried about that? Mykes, they Warehouse is compromised! We have a bigger calling here." He gestured his hand backward, toward the hidden entrance to the actual Warehouse. "I mean, let 'em have her. She's probably on their side, anyway!"

Myka glared at her partner, heat rising to her cheeks in the wake of her ire. "Stop it. You don't know that."

He sighed, shook his head, them looked at her wearing a kind of sympathetic grimace, as if he was about to utter words that would hurt. "We have to prioritize here. You know that, right?"

"He's here for her, Pete, and whatever he wants with her can't possibly be good for any of us. We also have to worry about what happens to the Warehouse if the Separatists win!"

Pete looked about ready to protest, but then Claudia, still mostly holding Jinks upright, shook her head and cleared her throat.

"She's right, Pete. MacPherson sees Wells as an artifact, and whatever he plans for her isn't good. We can't just let him have what he wants."

"James is here for the Sith. There's no doubt," Artie added, his voice just barely above a growl. "We have to protect her. That's also our job."

If her fellow agent and closest friend was disappointed by the consensus against him, he didn't show it. He wasn't that kind of guy, though – he did what was necessary, and always had.

Yet he hesitated so fiercely to even acknowledge Helena as anything more than an inconvenience. Even Artie, in all his dislike for the mere existence of the Sith, admitted that she held some value…just not to them.

Myka suspected a deeper reason for Pete's distrust, even suspected he had some vibe about it all, but whatever it was he hadn't quite gotten around to verbalizing it yet. She would have to goad him into it some other time.

They drew back into the shattered hallways as the mercs advanced, drawing close enough to catch the markings on their very distinctive armor. Pete cursed, and Myka could see why – the armor was custom-crafted, and bore the ceremonial markings of a particular kind of clan.

"Mandalorians?" Pete yelled. "What the frack are they doing on the Separatist side?"

Steve stumbled his way toward the opening and lifted his blaster rifle. It was a special weapon that Claudia had modified some time ago that was meant to stun and incapacitate for hours rather than kill. "Let's find out, shall we?"

"Is that gonna work on their gear?"

Claudia balked in response to the older woman's question and bore a very offended look, before she pulled out a blaster pistol of a similar make. She held it in her right hand and her saber in her left. "These babies work on everything," she asserted, before darting into the exposed opening and taking the first shot.

The blaster bolt hit its target, and a blue light arced across the Mandalorian's armor. The warrior beneath seized, then collapsed to his knees before falling face-first to the ground.

It did indeed seem like the weapons were effective, but with the first volley fired, the invaders opened up with their own hail of gunfire.

Chaos ruled for several long minutes, as bright and deadly blaster bolts rained over their heads and into the walls of their home. The deafening rancor of careening shots and the dust and smoke of impacts and explosions and crumbling walls made it hard to see and concentrate. Yet with stunning accuracy, Claudia and Steve and even Leena managed to pick their shots and drop warrior after warrior, thinning their numbers and evening the odds. Eventually, the Mandalorians realized that the group of agents had decimating weapons in their arsenal and scurried out of the line of fire.

Myka could feel them closing in slowly.

To their right, down the hallway, another point of ingress blew open, and the four Jedi drew their sabers long before they entered the remains of Pete's room.

Mandalorians were each adept fighters, skilled at marksmanship and piloting and ordinance, but their true renown was in hand-to-hand combat. At first, it was two-to-one odds against the knights in their new arena.

In close quarters, however, the advantage belonged to the Force-user.

Myka concentrated and gathered the dust and the air, coiled it beneath her palms and then pushed it down and out. The resulting wave blew the attackers into the walls, sending some sprawling so far back into the courtyard that Steve and Leena took them down from their defensive position at Myka's room. The rest rose, one by one, and resumed the attack.

Lightning struck somewhere nearby and illuminated the courtyard for just a moment, but it was enough for Myka's eye to detect movement along the crumbling far wall. MacPherson crept in the shadows, inching toward the inn's entry and, inevitably, the green door.

"Myka!"

It was Artie's cry of warning that sent her in motion, pushing her to fly across the yard and block the tall, slender man's path with her saber drawn and her heart racing.

He met her with his own red-bladed saber ignited.

The man's face was mostly cast in shadow, but what fiery light was present in the courtyard painted the lines of his face with eerie malice.

"Stand aside, you foolish girl! I'm not here for your precious artifacts! I'm here for the Sith!"

He pushed against their locked blades in an attempt to simply overpower her and shove her aside, but where he had strength as his ally in a fight, she had a far superior skill. His saber slipped away from hers, and she brought her blue blade up to strike, forcing him to take an imbalanced pace back to defend himself.

"You'll never have her," Myka said confidently, pushing her own advantage against him.

"Come now, what's one relic of a dead era in the grand scheme of the Warehouse's mission? I bear you no ill will, and I bear her none, as well. I daresay she might enjoy what I have in store for her."

Through the Force, she was suddenly made aware of a gathering darkness, one that had been present all along but grew in strength in moments, and at its focal point was the man standing before her. Her senses weren't like Steve's, and they weren't like Pete's, so she neither felt his lie nor sensed an imminent danger, but the heavy presence of hate and rage was a familiar warning.

She had never questioned Artie's claim that the man before her had fallen to the Dark Side, but there was no longer any room left for doubt. In that moment, standing before a true Dark Jedi for the first time in her life, she realized that this malevolence had not once been present within Helena Wells.

"I don't think so," she spat, and the true fight began.

Beneath the onslaught of the Mandalorian explosive charges, the courtyard walls had crumbled and craters marred the sprawling lawn of overgrown fauna within. They battled across the ruins, Myka using her keen skill and force sense to anticipate and parry and drive backwards. And the man - perhaps taken by surprise, perhaps simply bested – stumbled backwards across ferrocrete slabs and upchucked rock.

She had the man nearly cornered, and could sense the approach of the rest of her team. With one controlled spin, she batted the older man's lightsaber away, sending it to skitter across the ground. He raised his hands in surrender as she backed him into the wall at the point of her bright blue blade.

"You are quite gifted, my dear," he muttered, but she didn't bother responding. She would keep him at bay until one of the others could assist her in getting the man into restraints.

Then, before anyone could approach, his hand twitched.

"Myka!"

Her instinct had been to press forward and quickly end it, but the particular tone of Pete's yell was fearfully familiar.

A small stone appeared in the man's hand, simple in appearance but bright and red and angry through the Force.

An artifact.

Myka looked away as fast as she could and threw up every protective Force ward she knew, but the sound of countless screaming voices filled her mind, overwhelmed her senses, and pitched her over into the dust.

/

It took far too long to come around again.

Within minutes of her emergence from stasis, Helena had felt the full effects of mental exhaustion so keenly that she stayed blissfully unconscious for the bulk of a three week journey across Republic space. Upon her arrival on Ossus, still somewhat exhausted, her fatigue had only supplemented her bad mood.

Physical pain, however, was something she hadn't felt in a very long time.

It felt like a small eternity before the sensation disappeared, almost as suddenly as it had come on, and despite the obvious danger the Sith took her time pulling herself back to her feet. In the interval she felt the earth beneath her rock once more, ruining her first effort to right herself. At length she succeeded, and then pushed herself down the long corridor.

The green door was shut tight, locked and wired with its own redundant power supply. Helena could feel circuitry through the Force, and the combination of an innate skill and the extra sense had made her quite mechanically proficient.

She looked back toward the cell. Surely the forcefield had the same redundancy that was complicating her escape. However, she let the oddity slide and set to work on releasing the final lock on her cage. The circuitry was older, and yet somehow vexing in its configuration, and it depleted her patience until she at last had it – a pull of a wire, a feedback loop formed, and –

The green door clicked. Helena was, at last, free.

A pale, eager hand reached for the handle, hesitating only because its owner had such a hard time believing that this ambition she had pursued for much of her life and throughout her isolation was but the twitch of a muscle away. Smiling, the former captive tugged the door open.

The moment it slid ajar, she was dropped once again by agony.

Voices crowded her head, screaming in pain and sorrow and anger. The torture was mental, and chaotic, but not foreign. It was easier to manage than the physical experience she had been assaulted with before. Helena rose once again using the doorframe for support, and as she reeled against the onslaught she realized that the sounds and the fear and the tone of it all was familiar.

It was the pain of a hundred million souls crying out to the Force as their lives were extinguished by a relentless bombardment from above. It was the fathomless wound of a planet dying.

The agony in her mind was the terror of Taris as Malak directed the Leviathan – already her prison – to destroy the world from orbit.

As if acknowledgment was enough, the voices quieted significantly the second she recognized their source.

Helena staggered through the portal and into the smoky devastation of what used to be a living area. The sofa was overturned, the dining table broken. She could see distantly – regrettably - that the glass protecting Leena's grotto had been shattered. She rounded the corner slowly and crouched behind a disintegrated wall to observe the courtyard beyond for signs of opposition, and a chance at escape. The screaming of tortured souls had dulled somewhat, but she was also anxious to quell the noise.

In the distance, looming over the smoke and debris stood an efficiently-designed shuttle, and it was perhaps one of the most welcome sights she had ever seen. Her abilities as a pilot were quite extraordinary, if she did say so herself, and that craft would be her vehicle to freedom. All she had to do was cross the courtyard and avoid anyone left alive...

The Sith looked about the blazing battlefield once more, and her heart seized as a single, bafflingly disturbing thought crossed her crowded mind.

If there is anyone left alive.

She found bodies everywhere – stunned and silent suits of armor strewn across the floor around her and the dirt beyond, and amongst those motionless men she found the still bodies of the Jedi agents that had incarcerated her. The warriors were dead, but she could sense the Jedi were not…yet.

Her heart started once more, and began to race as the implication that Myka might be among them sank in. She sought the familiar form, her gaze raking across smoldering rubble until it landed upon her goal.

The Jedi was bent over the top of a pile of rubble, much like her companions. And before her stood a smug James MacPherson, clad in dark robes characteristic of Helena's own kind and holding the apparent source of that miserable wailing.

Crouched safely behind her crumbling wall, she surmised based on its undeniable effect upon every other living soul in the compound that an artifact had been created out of the terrible moment of an entire planet's extinction. That moment had left an indelible mark even upon her, for despite her imprisonment in a stasis field she had felt the damage done by Malak's desperation. In a failed attempt to kill one powerful Jedi, he had sacrificed and massacred a population of billions.

Rage flooded her, fueled her battle senses, and her muscles clenched in an attack posture purely out of instinct. That MacPherson would use an artifact created of such an event and imbued of such devastating power proved how truly corrupt he had become. He was no better than Malak, and that man had been a fool. A Sith pretender.

Now, as then, Helena Wells had no tolerance for such incompetence.

She was quite content to let the man suffer her wrath. She would have the fight she was denied on the Leviathan, and the Sith Code would finally deliver her the promise offered by its last lines.

Through victory, my chains are broken, she thought. The Force shall free me.

She gathered power about her, a reflex so much like inhaling, and primed for the expulsion of her fury. He might have sensed it – his head tilted in her direction and his eyes began to critically scour the wreckage.

Yet just as she was ready to strike, Myka moved.

Helena gasped, and the coil of power was cooled as the woman she had thought completely incapacitated drew to her full height once again, saber in hand, and ignited a clear blue blade. MacPherson seemed equally shocked, though his face bore a look that was more aghast than amazed. Helena, by contrast, was relieved beyond measure that the woman was alive.

That incongruous feeling would have to be contemplated later.

"My, but you are persistent," the man taunted as he turned the stone over in his hand. The screaming in her brain increased, and she winced, but it was still not enough to cut through the roiling anger racing through her veins. Myka staggered under the weight of the attack, as well, but righted herself in just as much time.

Again, Helena was impressed by the Jedi's force of will.

The Sith supposed she had as an advantage a survivor's armor against the agony, but plainly every other person in this battle had failed to withstand MacPherson's artifact-augmented attack. The woman standing before MacPherson in the courtyard had no defenses against this artifact except determination and fortitude. Rather than escaping or joining the fray, Helena was driven to simply bear silent and amazed witness for long moments to Myka's rather courageous stand. She soon shook herself free of that impulse after a few moments, and began to move through the shadows toward the shuttle, watching the pair of combatants as she progressed. The Jedi had things well in hand, it seemed.

It was almost a shame – Helena did so wish to dispatch MacPherson herself.

The man frowned deeply as Myka drew near. "The time for your heroics is past, Jedi," he called out, raising his other hand before him. Myka used his new offensive movements to her advantage and yanked the rock out of his grasp with hardly a jerk of her fingers, sending it flying across the courtyard and silencing the voices at last.

In response, the former Jedi's composure melted away. Anger swelled around him like a cloud, not to be seen but to be felt as something dark and terrifying...and familiar to Helena. She bore witness to the moment of the man's final act of betrayal to the order that he once served.

For somehow, despite its destruction so very long ago, he had been schooled in the ways of the Sith Order.

His hand flexed much as the Jedi's had before, but with the intent to push rather than pull. Hatred and disdain flared anew in Helena, who could not even cry out a warning before purple bolts of energy arced off MacPherson's fingertips and engulfed Myka in searing anguish.

Helena was taken off-guard when physical pain lanced through her once more, darkening her vision and blocking out sound, and she collapsed to her knees again, clutching at the edge of a demolished wall to keep herself from pitching over into the ash. She might have screamed – the sound filled her ears though she couldn't be sure of its source – but it was the buffer of unspeakable rage alone that kept her conscious and thinking. She could somehow feel Myka's agony, and though her body was perfectly fit, her mind reacted as if it were her flesh being singed, her muscles fried.

Wild, unchecked fury grew alongside the foreign feeling of fear for Myka's life until the mysterious pain was just another fuel, and she lifted her body to bear witness as Myka finally dropped likes a stone. The Jedi rolled down the hill of rubble to come to rest on her back, motionless.

"It's a shame," MacPherson said, just loud enough for Helena to hear him. "The Force is strong with you. My Master could have used a power such as yours."

Helena's eyes widened, her suspicious confirmed and more as he summoned his saber to his hand, activated it, and raised his arm to strike.

"NO!"

Propelled by the Force, powered by her emotions, she summoned Myka's saber to her side just as MacPherson's arm began to descend, then leapt the distance between with an aim for his head. He blocked it easily, but was forced into a defensive stance, and Helena twisted to recover and land on her feet beside Myka, at the foot of the mound of debris that MacPherson stood atop. He held high ground.

His advantage was dangerous, even insurmountable against a skilled opponent, but she had experience and indignant rage as her allies. She also something far more powerful: in threatening Myka, a woman she inexplicably cared for a great deal, James MacPherson had scorned Helena Wells and given her a cause.

The man's eyes had yellowed in his full embrace of the darkness, and his frustration at constantly being denied his desires was beginning to manifest in the disgusted curl of his mouth.

"What is it you mean to accomplish by saving this Jedi? Why would you stand against your own kind? This is a rescue mission, my dear. Put that saber down and let us leave these pathetic creatures behind."

Her rage curled and morphed in the pit of her stomach like a serpent and became something tangible. It was a coil of power, a reservoir of fleet fury to draw upon that sped her motions and heightened her senses. Yet she had to be judicious about its use - the anger was a drug, something to be used sparingly, and the longer it was allowed to manifest, the more dependent upon it a Sith became. She'd seen so many acolytes stumble into that dependency and pay for their misstep with their lives.

And for all the faults of the Sith culture, she knew that to be truly mighty was to walk that razor's edge, to embrace the myriad forms of fury, but use each as unique tools in a fight.

The suggestion, the mere idea that this fool could be a Sith was offensive at best, and blasphemous at worst. How dare he sully her great Order by pretending to be one of them? He was a toddler in the Dark Side, playing with forces far beyond his understanding. He was weak in the worst fathomable way.

And the gall of the man, pretending to sympathize with her after very literally sacrificing her on the Leviathan. How dare he insult her intelligence in such a way? Did he honestly think she would ever trust him?

"You believe yourself worthy of the title of a Sith? You know nothing of the elite society you pretend to belong to. You know nothing of its history and tradition. All you are is another misguided Jedi, lured by the sultry promises of the Dark Side and never committed to true mastery."

It wasn't a comment meant to assure him of anything other than his own subservient place in the order of things. The histories she had read suggested that the Sith had dwindled to only two Lords – a Master and Apprentice – at any given time. It was absurdity – it didn't matter that there may yet be creatures wandering the galaxy claiming the titles of the Dark Lords. In her mind, the Empire and all that was Sith was gone - these modern facsimiles were utter fools.

"And what are you, MacPherson? You're not the apprentice, and you're certainly not the Master. Are you a lapdog, then? An acolyte, at the beginning of his inevitably fruitless servitude under an inept Master? Or are you simply a buffoon, selling yourself as something greater than you will ever become?"

The ground beneath her began to shake as MacPherson's anger manifested. Loose stones began to levitate ominously.

"Weak, you say? By what measure? Even as a simple acolyte, I wield a greater mastery of the Force than even you could understand. In the shadows, the Order has thrived." The rocks arranged themselves to bombard the ancient Sith from all directions as MacPherson ground the rest of his statement through clench teeth.

"And you would do well to respect that."

She had seen such posturing before by so many prideful incompetents, and they had all met their end as little more than saber fodder.

She had many things to fuel her rage, but the anger most present, the weapon most fierce was the white-hot wrath that curled around her heart and drove her to crouch low and protective beside her Jedi savior. It was this fury, brought to bear by the threat against Myka's life, that would be his undoing.

How dare he.

Her answer was action – it was a pulse, a warning through the force not unlike the thunder still rolling above their heads, and as the clouds above finally broke so did MacPherson's hold over the pebbles. Helena was not interested in mere tricks.

One by one, the slabs of felled wall beneath his feet began to slide away and rise around him, threatening to fall in upon his head. He stood suddenly on even ground with the former Sith Lord, his advantage taken from him as a toy from a misbehaved child.

"The Order is dead, you fool," she hissed, her voice low and menacing and replete with the rage she was tapping into. "There are no Sith left but me. If you wish servitude to the true Dark Side, then I am the last Master."

She could taste his fear on the air, bitter and metallic as it mingled with the hard and driving rain. And it was his fear and not his anger that flailed outward toward the encroaching wall of rubble and disturbed it. Helena tilted her head, feeling the resistance, and let the slabs fall away.

She wanted him to learn his lesson painfully well before she killed him.

"You are a relic, Morlock!" MacPherson shouted, his face a cocksure configuration of arrogance and relief. "You cannot hope to stand against my master! Give yourself to the cause so that we may once again bring the mighty empire you once served and loved to its proper place in the galaxy!"

"I may have believed in the Sith Order," she growled, "but I was a slave to that empire! It is best left crumbled in history, where I will never be subjugated by it again."

"Oh, yes you will," James responded, "but perhaps not willingly."

He lunged forward, saber above his head, and she met his attack with a vicious grin.

It was over in a handful of split seconds.

So fast were her strikes, so fluid were her movements that MacPherson was disarmed and on his knees in moments. Shocked and not a little fearful, the man looked up the long length of Helena's borrowed blade and into her dark eyes.

In her triumph, she realized the truth of something she had suspected in reading the history of the Republic's victorious struggle against her Empire – the delicate art of saber combat had been lost over time, and the Jedi only had themselves to spar against in a time when blasters became the preferred weaponry of rare conflict.

It was sad, in a way, that the galaxy had modernized to a stage where such an elegant and civilized weapon was no longer favored. That unfortunate truth, however, flawlessly proved her point.

"You were saying?"

James MacPherson held his hands up in supplication, his brown eyes wide with fear and surprise. "I underestimated you...Master."

Pride was a dangerous thing – another lesson she had learned by observation. Yet there had been many Sith that had once deserved the vice. They were the elite, the masters that sat on the Dark Council. Each of them bore an earned arrogance.

Helena certainly had her fair share of those vices as the most accomplished acolyte, then Lord of her era. His address, the title of master had an undeniable appeal.

"The ship awaits. We can leave together, you and I, and I will serve as your apprentice. We will defeat the pretender Lord and his weakling second, and we will lead the Separatist droid armies to a victory over this accursed Republic. Together, you and I can reshape the Empire to your desire, and rule this galaxy."

She inclined her head to the shuttle, to the promise of freedom and all the power that the addictive rage whispered could be hers. It was such an easy thing to imagine, to reform the Republic into a shape of her making, to truly release herself from the cares of everything but her own creations.

It was such an easy thing to imagine creating that utopia that she and Revan had discussed so long ago.

In that brief moment of fancy, her concentration slipped just a fraction. MacPherson summoned his saber once more, activated it, and hurled it at the still figure on the ground behind her.

The thirst and anger in Helena mingled with a Force-born urgency that latched to her heart and squeezed it tight. She flung her own saber to deflect the pretender's attack and to defend the weapon's true owner. Darkness was summoned, swirled tightly around her and pool at her feet, then launched with the power of her powerful wrath towards the object of her rage. For James MacPherson, there was no escape – he was relieved of his footing and shot into the last solid wall standing, connecting with such a loud crack that it could be heard even over the thunder. At its limit, the barrier shattered and bowed over at his point of impact before it gave way completely and collapsed to bury him beneath it.

Fury left her as she realized he would not be attacking anyone again. He was alive – and likely to remain that way, unfortunately – but he would be incapacitated for quite some time.

With the rage dissipated, other sensations began crowding through her mind's barriers, and a desperate feeling of urgency became overwhelming as it clenched fiercely around her mind and heart. She could articulate the pull as the thread of a precious presence in the Force, and it pulsed and flickered against her awareness as if it was a living thing. She knew without question that the faint and fading tendril curled around her heart must belong to Myka. Helena knelt beside the woman that held faith in her when no other did, who cared enough to let her free of that bleak cage and lead her to that gorgeous and tranquil garden, even though it might very well have been the catalyst for MacPherson's attack, and the cause of all the destruction.

The rain muffled the sound of the shuttle's engines, but only just. She regarded the transport briefly, knowing it was her one chance at escape. Yet to leave was a death sentence for Myka...and for reasons quite beyond her capacity to understand them, the former Sith Lord found herself unable to pay such a price for her freedom.

Seated beside Myka, the forfeit was paid by the act of placing the dying woman's head in her lap. Wet strands of unruly hair, so often kept constricted in a conservative bun, clung to pale and clammy skin. There were scorchmarks on her modest nightclothes, along her arms and up her neck, and Helena winced as she ran her fingers across them.

It scared her, this decision, in a way that only one other choice ever had. She cared for this woman in a manner she should never care for anyone as a Sith, and certainly in a way that no Jedi should ever be cared for. Attachments were so very dangerous.

She never had been able to resist them.

A mighty Sith Lord had once cared for an old, quirky man and a child that never should have been born. She had even made friends with another Lord, and beneath his careful mask had found a man worthy of the kind of loyalty that her kin was so loathe to bestow.

And yet, it was those attachments that she had always found most worthwhile, and in them had found a deeper purpose. Glory and legend were the goals of every Sith, but legacy could only be built by those they left behind.

Perhaps there is no escape, she thought. Perhaps freedom lies in the ability to choose that which you serve.

There was no more contemplation as Helena began a healing trance, the only one she knew. It surrounded Myka in a shimmering blue light - a force-induced stasis field - and by will alone Helena held her together until more qualified help was available.

The choice was already made.

/

"Well this is...unexpected."

After the Jedi awakened and licked their wounds, after Claudia repaired the broken forcefield in the cell, and after MacPherson was dumped into it in the Sith's place and the Mandalorian troopers he killed with the Taris artifact were scooped up and stored for a respectful service, all that was left of the details was to speak to the Regents. Their intel reported that the raid was limited – no chatter indicated that the cartels or the Separatists were aware that Ossus was occupied. They'd gotten lucky, it seemed.

And Artie was not fond of luck.

The aged Jedi Master gave his report succinctly, and without opinion – his agents were fine, save one, and she would be dead already if it weren't for a Sith's efforts to save her. The facts irked him. They were, nonetheless, facts.

"It seems," Mrs. Frederic intoned, her blue form lighting up Artie's Warehouse office, "Miss Wells is not beyond redemption."

"Good can be found in anyone, Irene," Senator Amidala responded, "if given the proper environment to thrive in."

"And is the Warehouse the proper environment?" The other opinionated Regent from their conference several days before – Jane, Artie had heard her called – asked. "Can we trust someone like that with so many powerful objects? Can we trust a Sith with weapons capable of destroying the galaxy?"

"She has nowhere else to go," Bail Organa countered with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "Her empire is long destroyed, her home lost. We can't arrest her. We may as well keep her occupied, doing something useful somewhere where we can keep an eye on her."

"Inclined am I to believe that evil, she is not." Master Yoda stroked his wrinkled chin with a three-fingered claw, a gesture that, even though projected as a hologram, brought Artie back to his days as a youngling under the ancient master's tutelage. "Dark, the Force is. Clouded, our vision has become. Yet great destiny for Miss Wells, I sense. Anxious to see that come about, I am."

"Then it's agreed," Mrs. Frederic said. "We'll keep her here as a probationary agent, and help her re-acclimate to the galaxy as we can."

Artie shifted in his chair, but kept his mouth tightly shut. Unfortunately, in light of recent events and some of his own suspicions, he had to agree that keeping the Sith around was the right thing to do.

Of course, that didn't make him feel any better.

"We trust you and Master Artie will be exceptionally skilled in assisting our new agent in that endeavor," Amidala responded. And Mrs. Frederic, ever a mystery, opted to respond with an enigmatic smile and a bow.

"We've dispatched a heavy cruiser with a trustworthy crew to rendezvous with you in three weeks time to transfer MacPherson and the dead Mandalorians. We'll get what we can out of him, and then let him stand trial after selectively wiping his memory again." Organa shook his head. "Until then...just keep him alive."

Artie nodded. "Yes, Senator."

The meeting was adjourned, the transmissions were ended...and Artie was left with a cold chill in his bones.

He was accompanied by the Warehouse's resident spirit on his journey back toward the inn, where some quick repair work by maintenance droids had at least cleaned the place up a bit. The holes in the walls hadn't quite been patched, and the place still smelled of exploded ordinance. Yet as they made their way toward the one untouched bedroom, where Myka still lay unconscious, all of those details slipped his notice.

"You're worried," Mrs. Frederic said at last.

Artie grunted in reply at first, but when he cast a glance at her and noticed the arch of her eyebrow, he sighed. She wasn't going to let it go until he actually answered.

"Of course I'm concerned."

"And you still do not trust Miss Wells, do you?"

"No."

"Might I ask why not?"

They came to a stop at the doorway and peered through. Leena was gathering some supplies at the bedside, preparing to leave the other two occupants of the room alone after working a bit more of her healing magic. She smiled at the pair as she approached them at the doorway.

Artie looked, long and hard, at the younger and ailing knight spread across the bed, and scrutinized the woman at her bedside, hands wrapped around one of Myka's own as she waited for his agent to wake up.

"She'll be okay," Leena said, resting a hand on Artie's shoulder. "She just needs rest. Lots of it."

He could have asked a million questions. He could have thanked her for the reassurance, or the help. Instead, he turned his intense gaze upon the young innkeeper and posed another, entirely different query.

"It's a Force Bond, isn't it?"

The curly-headed woman nodded her head, and probably couldn't help the smile that broke out across her face. "And a particularly strong one, too. Very rare. It's remarkable, really. They should be able to feel each other's pain, and will be affected by each other's absence. Keeping Helena in that cell for so long was undoubtedly difficult for both of them. They would have felt…untethered."

But Artie felt unhinged.

"Remarkable," Mrs. Frederic whispered. "I have only rarely heard of a bond so strong. And there hasn't been one reported in so long. Not since…"

"Not since Master Bastila Shan," Artie finished, his voice just barely outside of the range of a snarl. "And Revan."

Mrs. Frederic drew back a bit at the bite in her agent's tone.

"You still do not believe she is worthy of your trust, Arthur? Even now, when you know for a fact that she might never be able to sever the bond she has with our family?"

"No. Definitely not now." With that, the Jedi Master turned his back on the pair and walked back towards the Warehouse.

"Not ever."

/ end Episode I


End file.
